


what this palace wants is release

by kingsnow (bravegentlestrong)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate universe - Children being innocent and happy instead of dying, F/M, Fluff, Happy Starks, King Rickon, Lowkey parent trap au, Not much hurt but a lot of comfort, R plus L equals J, Rickon is King in the North, using politics to make people get married and be your parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravegentlestrong/pseuds/kingsnow
Summary: When Sansa and Jon show up at Bear Island, Rickon is already there holding court as King in the North and planning a war with Lyanna Mormont. They look exactly like the parents who he lost. Once Jon and Sansa take over the whole ruling-the-kingdom thing, Lyanna and Rickon use their political capital to parent trap Jon and Sansa.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rickon won't parent trap his siblings until he finds out Jon is not their brother.  
> Title from Team by Lorde

Rickon was sitting at his desk when there was a knock on the door of his solar. Even after living on Bear Island for six months, he thought it odd that he should have such a room at all. But when he’d protested Lyanna had insisted that he needed to have a place to conduct Kingly business. He still wasn’t entirely sure what his Kingly business was, but he hated to disappoint Lyanna so he spent a great deal of his free time in there.

 

Rickon looks down at his desk in an attempt to appear as though he had been interrupted. On his desk was a map of the North, with figurines of ships and armies and house sigils. He held a ship in his hand, fiddling with it. “Come in.”

 

Lyanna opens the door. Rickon focuses, trying his best not to smile and instead be as serious and foreboding as Lyanna always was.

 

“We have visitors from the mainland.”

 

Lyanna never called him Your Grace. She had at first, but he’d found it weird so he’d asked her not to. He wasn’t a real King to anybody except Lyanna anyway.

 

“Oh, interesting.”

 

“Your sister, or somebody claiming to be your sister, and your bastard brother.”

 

The world felt like it was falling out from beneath Rickon’s feet. His eyes widen. He stands up quickly, the figurine he had been playing with falling to the table.

 

Four years had passed since he had seen either of them. He wanted to – _needed to –_ run to them.

 

But as he moved to the door, Lyanna stood in his way. “You can’t just walk in there and let them know you’re here!”

 

“Lyanna –“

 

“I am pledged to House Stark, Rickon, I must uphold my oath to keep you safe." It must be the millionth time she'd said that. She talked to him like he was a child, and sure, maybe he was, but he was two months older than her. Still, Lyanna Mormont was clearly the Alpha child, whether she called Rickon her King or not.

 

“If you’re pledged to our house, then aren’t you pledged to my sister?”

 

Lyanna rolls her eyes at him. He found he kind of liked it when she did that. He kind of liked a lot of things about Lyanna. She reminded him of Shaggy – wild and violent but loyal and good. “Your sister is a Bolton. How do we know she isn’t here to kill you?” 

 

“Sansa wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Besides, we already talked about how we were going to save her.”

 

“She’s married to a tyrant, and doesn’t appear to be his captive. There will be no more dead Starks on my watch,” Lyanna lifts her chin and puffs out her chest. Both of them were very passionate on that front. Rickon would save every last Stark if he had to. Nobody else in his family seemed to be up to the task. He would bring them all back to Winterfell, even if he died trying.

 

Rickon sighs. “So what was the point of telling me if you’re not even going to let me see them?”

 

“I can’t tell you to do anything, I serve you.”

 

“Really?” Rickon can't help but laugh.

 

Sometimes it seemed like a make believe game that they were playing. He was happier when he made himself pretend that’s what it was. It’s not like he wanted to be King, but he got to say other dreams out loud. When Rickon talked about avenging his brother, Lyanna would go along with it. She would talk about reclaiming Winterfell like they could actually do it one day. He would tell her about how he longed to go home and she would set her jaw and start asking about Winterfell’s defenses.

 

Rickon had declared Lyanna hand of the king when he still thought she saw all of this as a game too. But Lyanna took her role very seriously. She had much less time for him now that she was planning an invasion of the North.

 

“I’m no traitor.”

 

“Right, well, as my hand, what do you suggest?” If anything was a game, it was this. Pretending that he had the option to reject his hand’s advice. Rickon was powerless to Lyanna’s withering glares.

 

“You can wait in the hall while I discuss whatever it is they came to talk about. And if I give the signal, you will reveal yourself.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“The signal is King in the North.”

 

Lyanna loved saying King in the North. She would never just say ‘King’, without the ‘in the North’. He’d asked why once and she’d scoffed and told him she didn’t want anybody to think she was accidentally praising Tommen. ‘I met him once. An imbecile.’ Lyanna had been five and Tommen not much older, but Lyanna told him that first impressions mattered.

 

Rickon hid behind the door while Lyanna talked to his brother and sister. He felt like a cowering fool, looking through a peephole. He had only been six when he saw them last, but he knew in his heart that they were not imposters, and that they would never hurt him.

 

He realizes that they look almost exactly like mother and father right away, and he is filled with longing. He is good at pretending, after all. Rickon has kept himself alive by dreaming about the past and a better future. He’s squinting, and he knows it’s just Jon and Sansa but seeing them makes him feel as though mother and father have risen from the dead and have come to take him home. Finally. He’d been waiting for so many years.

 

He can barely hear most of the conversation, but he does hear “he has our brother.”

 

Rickon would do just about anything Lyanna told him to, but this was too much. They are making a plea for help so they can return home, all of them, and be a family again, and that's all he has ever wanted.

 

He bursts through the doors and ran to them, flinging his arms around Sansa.

 

Sansa gasps, but barely a moment passes before her arms wrap around him and he can feel her hot tears on his neck. She breathes his name and Rickon is happy, truly happy, for the first time he can remember.

 

“I thought you were—“ Sansa starts, but she looks behind him at Jon and doesn’t finish her thought.

 

She releases him and Jon’s hand is on his shoulder. As he turns around, he notices that Lyanna was glaring at him, and all he can manage is a sheepish shrug before Jon pulls him into his arms. Jon even smells the way his father had – like fire and sweat and soap.

 

When they do break apart, Jon looks him in the eye and says, “you’ve grown so much.”

 

Rickon scarcely remembered what Sansa and Jon looked like before the war. Just faint outlines, more like drawings or paintings than real people. His memories of his mother and father were a little better. Mother and father were always showing up in his dreams. But now Jon and Sansa were the spitting image of his parents, at least the parents he remembered. It was both unnerving and incredibly comforting.  

 

“You – you’ve – you look so much like father,” Rickon finally gets out.

 

Jon grins and pulls him tight once again.

 

“So now you see why I cannot fight for your cause. House Mormont is pledged to the King in the North, Rickon Stark, and we will retake Winterfell in his name,” Lyanna says, crossing her arms.

 

 

 

The training yard on Bear Island is nothing like Winterfell’s. There is no Ser Rodrick to help Rickon train to retake his home. The next day, Jon offers to help him train. Though Lyanna is a fun sparring partner, Jon exerts him quickly and before long he’s sweating and panting. He’s engrossed in the swordplay, his concentration focussed on trying to best his older brother.

 

When he finally looks up, he notices Lyanna staring at the two of them. When he looks at her, she looks away quickly.

 

Rickon calls to her.

 

“Do you need something?” Lyanna asks, very seriously, ever the dutiful hand.

 

“Don’t you want to have a go?”

 

“Well. If you insist,” Lyanna says with feigned reluctance, grabbing a training sword as though it hadn’t been what she wanted the entire time. Rickon has become wise to her act after all these months.

 

The three of them stay in the courtyard until they have to dress for dinner.

 

He sits at the head of the table, with Sansa and Lyanna on either side of him, and Jon beside Sansa. Sansa begins to cut up his meat for him just like his mother had once done. Lyanna looks down her nose at him, but he doesn’t care. If anything, Lyanna is the fool for having to cut up her own meat.

 

Ten minutes into dinner, Sansa notices a cut on his hand. Her face turns nearly as red as her hair, and she turns to Jon, “you struck him!”

 

“It was an accident,” Rickon intervenes, and as he turns to his siblings he sees his brother give his sister an apologetic smile anyway.

 

“It won’t happen again,” Jon says to Sansa, very seriously.

 

“It better not. We’ve just gotten our little brother back, and you’re already endangering him!”

 

“It will happen again,” Rickon says, “there’s no way around it. We’re training. War is dangerous. It’s better, because before people were afraid to hurt me because Lyanna told everyone I was their King.”

 

Sansa spins around to him. She pats him on the head but she narrows her eyes. “Rickon… what do you think you’re training for?”

 

“To retake Winterfell.”

 

Jon spits out his ale onto a plate of mashed potatoes, and has to cover his mouth to contain his laughter.

 

“Rickon, you’re ten years old!”

 

Rickon can’t help but roll his eyes. “I’m the King, Sansa. If I don’t fight, why would anybody follow me?” Jon is still laughing and Rickon glares at him. What does Jon know of being King?

 

“Before me and Jon showed up, did you two plan on attacking Winterfell with under a hundred soldiers?” Sansa asks, incredulous.

 

Rickon has never heard their plan spoken out loud before by anybody but Lyanna. He doesn’t know how to address the holes in the plan somehow both he and Lyanna missed. Luckily, his hand pipes up, “the people of Bear Island fight like –“

 

“No,” Sansa says, “no! This is not happening. I don’t know if I even trust the two of you in the same room together if this is what you’re up to.” With her brow furrowed, her glare is ten times more fearsome than Lyanna’s had ever been.

 

Sansa turns to Jon so fast her braid hits Rickon in the face. She places a hand on Jon’s arm and squeezes. Jon says nothing, just looks down at her hand, just as dumbstruck by Sansa’s rage as Rickon and Lyanna had been. “Jon? Are you going to say something?”

 

Jon looks up at Rickon, “your sister’s right.”

 

“Rickon is the King in the North, he doesn’t have to listen –“  but Lyanna stops again when she becomes the focus of Sansa’s glare.

 

“I’ll take care of the war stuff,” Jon says, and Sansa finally releases her grip on his arm. Rickon begrudgingly nods and Sansa smiles triumphantly.

 

Rickon goes back to eating his potatoes. “I don’t know why you’re so mad. We were going to rescue you. We were going to kill all of the Boltons.”

 

Sansa looks down at him and the outrage fades from her face. He remembers how soft she has always been with him. Before he saw her again, he had thought maybe his memories of Sansa had been made up, but as soon as he saw her they seemed real. He had held on to them for so long and they had helped to keep him safe. He remembered how she used to hold him as she walked around the castle, how she would sneak him lemon cakes, how she would make him clothes and then present him to everyone and how she would play with his toes. She leans over and kisses him on the forehead, and it’s just like that again.

 

“I’m your big sister, Rickon. It’s my job to protect you.”

 

 

 

Sansa and Jon stay on at Bear Island for another week. Sansa is sweet but she is also ferocious. She reminds him of Osha sometimes, but much prettier and more courteous. Sansa makes him name somebody else his hand.

 

“Your hand can’t be a ten year old girl.”

 

“She’s ten and a half, actually.”

 

Sansa sighs.

 

“Do you want to be my Hand?”

 

“No, I’m technically your Regent. And I’m married to a Bolton.”

 

“Jon, then?”

 

“Davos, probably, for now, he’s a Knight and was Stannis’ hand. Jon can lead your army, but he _is_ a bastard and some think him a deserter.”

 

Rickon nods. Sansa seems to spend half of her time scolding him, but Rickon delights in it. When she presses her brows together and sighs she looks just like his mother. He feels secure and safe in a way he didn’t think possible. 

 

Their week together passes all too quickly. When he and Jon are training, Sansa watches, and sometimes he looks over just to make sure she’s still there, and she gives him the gentlest of smiles. Sansa and Jon tell him stories of their childhood and home, things he hadn’t known but it felt like remembering. There isn't enough time, they leave way too soon, but he makes them promise they will come back.

 

They return for him less than a month later. Winterfell is won, and they can go home.


	2. Chapter 2

Lyanna had not taken being ousted from her position as Hand of the King lightly. She refused to come to Winterfell at first. When Sansa and Jon had come to collect Rickon, he’d asked her why she hadn’t packed.

“I’m the Lady of Bear Island. I have a duty to my people.”

Rickon couldn’t help but feel betrayed. Going back to Winterfell had been her plan and she had waited until the last possible moment to tell him she wasn’t coming after all.

“I thought you were going to help me rule!”

“That was when I was Hand of the King. You have Ser Davos now.”

Rickon groaned. Ser Davos was nice and everything, much nicer than Lyanna, really, but he was a southerner, and worse still, old. Besides, it seemed as though Winterfell was going to be awfully boring. They were at war with the Freys, so he couldn’t request they send him a fresh batch of spare Walders.

Why couldn’t it be enough just to be his friend? Why did she need a title?

“You can still be my hand. My secret hand!”

Lyanna stuck up her nose, as though that was a great insult.

It took two weeks of negotiations via ravens for her to finally accept a new position. Ser Davos was very helpful. It was Sansa who made things difficult. She balked when Lyanna insisted she be named Master of Laws.

“She’s very good at justice and revenge and that sort of thing,” Rickon insists. “We made a very good list.”

“What list?”

“A list of who we will charge with treason after the war is over.”

Lyanna had told him stories about his father, where he would avenge people’s honour himself with a giant broadsword. Rickon didn’t remember that, and he couldn’t imagine beheading anybody, but there were lots of things he couldn’t imagine that he'd been forced to do. 

He knew it was a very reasonable list, but she disagreed and confiscated it. It had been Rickon’s only copy. Rickon and Lyanna had to spend hours brainstorming to come up with such a comprehensive list of murderers and traitors, and when Rickon tried to make a new version he knew he was forgetting people.

Ultimately, Ser Davos created the position of Assistant to the Hand of the King. Lyanna refused unless the ‘to the’ was dropped. ‘I will be Ser Davos’ second in command, but I am no-one’s lackey,’ she had written.

 

Returning home wasn’t as easy as Rickon expected it would be. Winterfell wasn’t the same without Bran and Arya and Robb and his parents, or Maester Luwin. There were a lot of new people too. Petyr Baelish and Brienne of Tarth and a bunch of wildlings. But sometimes things were almost perfect anyway, even if half the castle was in ruins. 

Sansa sang him songs every night before bed. Afterwards, she would lay beside him in bed and they would talk until his eyes couldn’t stay open anymore and he fell asleep. He always fought sleep because it was the best part of his day. Everything was peaceful and quiet, and he would be warm from the fire and the thick furs.

Sometimes Jon would sit in a chair by his bed too, and they would be almost like a real family. On those nights he had the sweetest dreams. 

The first night Jon attended their bedtime ritual his eyes had been droopy the entire time until he finally fell asleep in the chair.

“Should we wake him?”

Sansa shook her head. “He’s very tired. It was a tough ride. I’m surprised he didn’t kill his horse." Sansa shifted her head to look over at Jon, her long hair tickling his neck as she moved. "He works himself too hard.”

“He wanted to see us. To come home.” 

That’s what people did when they loved each other. They come back as quickly as they can. Rickon had told Jon that when Jon had refused to promise he would come back. But he had promised to come back as soon as he could manage, which was something, even though Rickon knew sometimes people didn't come back at all.

“Yes, I suppose he did. He looks peaceful when he sleeps, doesn’t he?”

He did. And so did Sansa. Everything was so easy when they were all together. 

That night, Sansa fell asleep next to him. When he woke up, she had her arms around him and he didn’t move for hours, not until she woke up. 

 

The night before Lyanna was set to arrive, Jon and Sansa both came to his room again to tuck him in.

“I don’t think your Lady Mormont likes me very much,” Sansa says, as though Lyanna somehow belonged to him, as if Lyanna Mormont could belong to anybody. Rickon wishes it were that simple, sometimes. But everyone he loved was free and wild and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make them stay. He couldn't even make them all get along. The world would be easier if everyone had Shaggy and Osha's loyalty. 

“Lyanna thinks you’re really pretty.”

Well, that was kind of what she had said. She said the reason she kept getting kidnapped was because she was too pretty. And that Rickon himself had better watch out, because he was almost as pretty. That had been the first, and only, time Rickon had ever told Lyanna to fuck off. It wasn’t Sansa’s fault people kept holding her prisoner! He had reminded Lyanna that Sansa was her princess and nobody was allowed to talk about her like that.

Sansa smiles. “Does she?”

“Well, you are,” Jon says from his chair, his voice gruff and tired. Rickon looks over at Jon and grins, but Jon's eyes are focused on Sansa. He doesn't blame Jon. Sansa is beautiful, not just pretty, especially when she's taken out her braids and her hair fell in soft, messy waves around her face. Rickon liked touching her hair when it was like that, it was soft between his fingers.

Sansa didn’t reply, she just began to sing. Her voice is so soft it makes his entire body relax, and he drifts to sleep imagining Florian and Jonquil. He must have fallen asleep. Because what happens next could only have been a dream, even if it felt as though his eyes had fluttered open.

Sansa is standing by the chair Jon was sitting in, and her hand is on his cheek, and she leans down and their lips touch.

But as quickly as Sansa leaned down to kiss Jon, she pulls away. She mutters “I’m sorry,” and leaves the room. 

After she leaves, Jon brings his fingers up to his lips and closes his eyes.

When Rickon wakes up, neither of them are there.

 

Lyanna didn’t understand that there were things much more fun than politics. When she first arrived, she claimed Sansa had boxed her out of the meetings of the small council. With nothing else to do, Lyanna would play hide and seek with him. Half of his old hiding spots had burned down, so he lost his home advantage over her, but still won every time. When he teased her, she became defensive and challenged him in a barely controlled huff. _‘If you’re so great, why did I find you in Skagos?’_

One day, Lyanna asked him if he had any ideas. They had spent all days drafting a royal edict that no Stark was to leave the North, under any circumstance, ever. But Sansa had vetoed it as impractical. 

The truth is, there’s not much for either him or Lyanna to do. It bothered her, but Rickon didn't care. He never wanted to be King anyway. She grumbles about how the assignment Jon gave them to recruit blacksmiths to Winterfell was just busy work. “I don’t even believe there is a Samwell Tarly,” she says, “he was just afraid I was going to have him tried for treason because I discovered their secret meetings.” But she takes it seriously anyway, and pretty soon they're spending all their time trying to write to get people to move North just as Winter has hit. 

She’s right that he is often excluded in the small council meetings. He prefers that. They’re rather boring and he doesn’t ever completely understand what’s going. Worse still, nobody ever listens to him They do tell him that Jon is going to Dragonstone on a diplomatic mission, and even though Rickon tries to put a stop to it, his treacherous Regent overrules him. At least it was just Jon going. He couldn't be killed, all of the wildlings knew it. 

When Jon is leaving, he comes to Rickon alone for advice from his King.

“Try to kill Tyrion Lannister, if you can,” Rickon tells his brother. “We don’t want him to get his hands on Sansa again.”

“I certainly won’t let the Lannisters take our sister. Anything else?”

“Try to kidnap a dragon. We only need one.”

“I’ll try."

 

Rickon barely had time to miss Jon before Bran came home. Of all his family, Bran was the one he remembered best. When he finally saw his brother, he’d realized how much he’d missed him. They ate lunch together and Bran regaled them with stories about where he’d been. But then Bran messed everything up, and Rickon hated him. He’d never truly hated Bran, not even when Bran sent him away. But now he was ruining everything. 

“It’s a lie. Dreams aren’t real just because you were sleeping in a tree! Of course Jon is our brother.”

But Bran has endless amounts of explanations, and a letter from Howland Reed, and Sansa believes him.

He can’t take it. He growls in frustration and ignores Sansa and Bran when they try to tell him that everything's fine, when clearly _nothing_ was fine.

Why was his family so determined to fall apart? He wasn’t going to watch them do it. He leaves, slamming the door behind him, and running through the Godswood into the glass garden. He grinds his teeth and can’t help talking to himself, muttering all the good comebacks he wished he had come up with, plotting what he was going to say to make everything better. 

Osha found him first, sitting under a table of tomato plants. But Rickon screamed at her to go away. He didn’t actually want her to leave, and he was even angrier when she did.

Lyanna eventually found him, and by then most of his rage had subsided. His tears still hadn’t dried, but Lyanna didn’t say anything about them. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all. The two of them just sat underneath the table for almost an hour. The sun had completely vanished, and he could hear Shaggy howling in the distance.

Finally, Rickon turns to Lyanna.

“Do you ever miss your mother?”

He knew better than to ask about her father. He had once, and she’d told him her father wasn’t a human at all but rather a bear. A bear that she’d never met. ‘Bears don’t live as long as humans. So he’s probably dead,’ she’d said when he asked where he was. Lyanna had a knack for saying weird things there was no sensible reply to. 

“Yes,” she says, but when he doesn’t reply she doesn’t say anything else.

Finally, after almost half an hour of silence, her voice is tough. “It’s too bad you gave up all of your power so easily.”

“I’ve only just passed my eleventh nameday.”

“I’ve been running Bear Island since I was _seven_.”

Rickon sighed with exasperation. Usually he didn’t mind how complicated Lyanna was. He preferred how she was complicated and hardened and she knew about what it was like to lose everyone, to not be a child at all. They were both tired and sad but pushed on anyway. There were things they both knew that neither could find words for. He preferred her bravery to other children’s cheerfulness. But sometimes her ferociousness wasn't right either, and he was truly alone. Sometimes he wanted her to run through the gardens with him instead of hypothesizing about conspiracies Lyanna imagined were taking place in the shadows of Winterfell (he was so sick of discussing Littlefinger, who seemed too kindhearted to hurt anyone, let alone plot to murder Rickon). But there were a few other children in the castle who giggled and made silly jokes but they didn't know what it was like to lose everything. Lyanna knew what it was like to be left behind.

Lyanna seemed to understand, because she softened. “It’s okay, your sister can be a little intimidating. All I meant was, you want Sansa to be your mother right?”

Rickon gulps, “no, my mother’s dead.”

“And so is your father, but you want Jon to be your father anyway,” she says, matter-o-factly, and he doesn’t have the heart to lie and say it’s not true. It is. So he just sits there. “If you were a proper King, you could make them get married.”

Rickon looks over at her, even though he knows his eyes are blotchy and red and he’d rather she didn’t see. He’s surprised to see it in her face, but it’s there. The reason she knows is because she feels it too. Sansa visits her chambers too, sometimes, and sings her favourite song (sometimes Rickon wondered if Lyanna was a little _too_ interested in bears). Jon always lets her come hunting with them. Lyanna doesn't have big brothers and sisters on Bear Island. He wants to hold her and tell her it's okay, she'll always have him if she wants him, but he doesn't dare. 

“Don’t look at me like that! They’re not brother and sister.”

But that’s not what he was thinking at all. He’s remembering that dream. Sansa reaching out to touch Jons face. Sansa turning and leaving. Dreams weren't real, but Bran's dream had made Jon not their brother anymore. Maybe rickons dream could be true too. And Jon hadn’t wanted her to leave. He had wanted to go after her. And even if that wasn’t real, he knew that Jon didn’t want to go south. Jon didn’t want to be a dragon, he wanted to stay at Winterfell with Rickon and Sansa. Jon was a wolf. He was a Stark. 

“I think maybe that would make them happy.”

It would certainly make Rickon happy. Jon and Sansa could have children, and he could have new brothers and sisters. His mother had promised him once that he would have a baby brother. He didn’t remember much of Catelyn Stark, but once had grumbled that he didn’t want to be the baby, and Catelyn had promised a new baby. Neither of them would ever have to leave Winterfell. Jon could be a Stark, and Sansa wouldn't ever marry anyone or get imprisoned again.

“Well it’s too late, now you can’t make them do anything.”

“What if they fell in love?" 

As he says it, he knows it will work. He's listened to enough of Sansa's songs to know that love would always win in the end. Sansa was a beautiful princess, and Jon was a chivalrous hero. Maybe not charming, but neither was Florian and Jonquil liked him just fine. Osha had said Jon was handsome. It just made sense. Lyanna is talking, but he doesn't pay her any attention, because wheels in his head have started to spin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Sansa chapter! Back to regularly scheduled Rickon programming next time :)

Sansa hadn’t originally wanted Lyanna Mormont to come to Winterfell.

 

But on their last night at Bear Island she’d gotten far too drunk. Rickon had already gone to bed, and there were only fighting men and their wives left in the Hall. First she’d drank the Arbor Gold that Lyanna brought out from the cellar to celebrate the retaking of the North. But after she’d emptied her cup, she’d made a face at the tankard of ale Jon was guzzling back. “I can’t believe you _willingly_ subject yourself to that.”

 

“Habit?”

 

There was a thin line of foam on the top of his lip and she felt an urge to lick it off. She reminded herself how disgusting Northern ale was. “It’s nauseating swill.”

 

“Luckily I don’t have your delicate sensibilities.”

 

She scoffed, unable to tell if she was truly offended or jesting. She took his ale from the table in front of her and managed to down quite a bit of it, coughing only slightly. Before she could finish the tankard, he took it from her.

 

When he doesn’t say anything, she raises an eyebrow.

 

“We should get you to bed,” he says with a soft laugh, shaking his head slightly. “You’re drunk.”

 

“I’m not drunk!”

 

But she was. And it was nice. There had been tension building between them for the past week or so that seemed to relax tonight. Once she had Rickon back she’d had to face that the feelings she had for Jon hadn’t been so brotherly after all.

 

“We have a big day tomorrow. You’ll regret it if you don’t get some sleep,” he said. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off, “fine, _I’ll_ regret it if I don’t get any sleep. And I can’t leave you like this.”

 

She sighed. She didn’t want to go to bed. It had been such a nice night. His leg had been touching hers under the table for hours and it did something in her stomach that couldn’t have just been the alcohol.

 

He reached over and took her hand in his. She was glad for it because it was harder to stand up than anticipated.

 

They walked arm and arm to her chambers. Just as Jon was about to leave, she threw her arms around him. It wasn’t the first time she had done it, but it was the first time she noticed how being so close to him made her heart beat faster in her chest. When they pulled apart, she hadn’t wanted their embrace to end. Her hand seemed to have a mind of its own and it cupped his cheek. She’d caught herself in time. He’d hitched his breath and his eyebrows had pressed together and that was enough for her to stop, to not dare go any further. She turned away.

 

She was guilty about it all night. She wished the wine had taken the memory, but the embarrassment of it did not wane when she woke. She knew she had crossed an invisible line. Jon may like her domestic attentions, but that was only because there had been no women at Castle Black. She was better at stitching his socks than a boy of twelve, and gentler company than a band of rapers.

 

The next morning Osha approached her before she left. She’d seen something. “It was nothing!” Sansa protested, but Osha must have seen the shame in her eyes.

 

“Good,” Osha said, too knowingly.

 

That should have been the end of that, but Osha approached her once more once they got to Winterfell. “He’s been through so much. You shouldn’t keep him from his Little Lady.” Osha had such disgust in her eyes that Sansa would have to be an idiot not to see the implication. So Lyanna Mormont arrived a month later despite Sansa’s objections to her inclusion in matters of state.

 

 

 

That Sansa’s heart softened to the little Mormont girl so easily actually had very little to do with Lyanna. It was Rickon’s utter devotion to the little girl’s happiness. Her darling little baby boy had a crush. She would watch the two of them in the training yard. Rickon was the spitting image of Robb, in possession of all of his charm but none of his table manners. Their boy King was gracious in his swordplay, despite taking to it like a natural he always let Lyanna knock him to the ground. Sometimes when she looked at them playing she felt like she was back in her childhood again.

 

It was the most innocent of romances. Perhaps Lyanna was not the perfect leading lady, but Sansa felt warm whenever she saw them whispering in each other’s ears or sneaking off to the Godswood. She realized that this is what life felt like when you moved on. The scars on her body are slow to heal, but carving out this piece of happiness as they faced Winter made everything else manageable. There would be something waiting for them after the wars ended, a peaceful future worth fighting for.

 

 

 

 

She brings it up with Jon.

 

She’s perched on the edge of Rickon’s bed. Rickon is fast asleep behind her. This is their ritual, where they are a family once again. It’s all so very soft.

 

She is looking at Jon, whose hair seems perfectly windswept. Though he changed his clothes, he’s dirty from riding. There is mud under his fingernails and his hair is damp and full of dust. She likes him like this, he’s more handsome when he’s tired from a rough ride to come home to them.

 

‘You shouldn’t ride so hard in a storm,’ she’d told him earlier that night. ‘I promised him I’d be here. I should keep my promises while I still can,’ he said. She ignored his morbidity and kept her face stony, though his honour and devotion to their family made her chest tighten.

 

She spins a piece of red hair around her finger and grins like she’s 11 again, gossiping about her own gallant Prince.

 

“Can you feel the love in the air?”

 

She’s flirting, and she gulps down air when his eyes meet hers in the candlelight. She can’t help herself, and he always plays along just enough for her to keep going. This time maybe she’s pushed a little too far, but her eyes look down at his lips anyway. They’re chapped from the wind and snow. That shouldn’t be appealing, and yet it was.  

 

She doesn’t manage to take her eyes off his lips, but she continues, “Rickon and Lyanna’s courtly love.”

 

“Courtly love? Winterfell is a paltry court these days.”

 

“But our Rickon is the epitome of chivalry, isn’t he?”

 

Jon tilts his head to the side, and she looks up to his eyes again. He’s studying her closely. “Do you still dream of songs and chivalry? You still know all the words. Or is that just for Rickon?”

 

“No,” she says just as she realizes she does. That Jon is Prince Aemon the Dragonknight come to life, here and now, perfect but impossible all the same.

 

“What do you dream of then?”

 

 _You_ is not an appropriate answer. She shrugs, and throws his question back at him, “what do _you_ dream of, oh Prince That Was Promised?”

 

Jon grimaces but seems to laugh despite himself. He always does that when she calls him one of the titles the Red Woman bestowed on him. She can’t help but smirk as she feels a rush of pride and happiness at being the one who brought a smile to his always stoic face. It feels like a great victory.

 

“Home.”

 

She thinks it almost romantic in the low light. It’s not meant to be. It’s familiar – Rickon and the memories in the crypt and the legacy they would rebuild in their father’s name. She leans over and runs a hand over his rough cheek anyway. She doesn’t pull away like she had on Bear Island. She’s not drunk, it’s something much more potent and dangerous than that.

 

Her lips graze his gently. The edge of his tongue runs along her lower lip and she almost inhales so she could devour that feeling. But she doesn’t get lost in the moment. Quite the opposite. She becomes hyperaware and it feels both right and wrong at the same time. She had been lost in his eyes and the gentle back and forth, but this was lightning striking sand and creating something new. She remembered their brother was asleep behind them. That Jon was her brother too, no matter how it felt.

 

She pulled away as quickly as she leaned over, she mutters her apologies and runs away.

 

 

 

 

Bran has many stories, but the one that sticks to her rib is that Jon is not their brother at all. She doesn’t have it in her to chase after Rickon when he runs off. Luckily, Rickon has a wildling warrior-nanny to try to find him. She looks down at her plate and pushes food around before realizing she has much to discuss with Bran.

 

No, he won’t be King, he will not take his birthright. He has other things to do. Saving-the-world magical things that don’t seem entirely real. But, hey, so much weird and awful shit has happened to them that she believed it. They discuss the succession for awhile, but Bran isn’t very interested in earthly matters.

 

She wants to ask Bran more about Jon, but she lets her doubt and longing fester. She asks Bran about everything else instead.

 

“Do the ravens say Lady Mormont will be Queen?”

 

“The Three Eyed Raven didn’t really linger on my 11-year-old brother’s future wife. Been rather focussed on the White Walkers,” Bran says with a smile.

 

Meera laughs beside him, and Sansa thinks that the two of them would make a fine couple as well. She hadn’t quite reverted to old coping mechanisms, she was wishing love on others now. So she could watch it like a spectator and not be consumed by it. Besides, she couldn’t help but form a soft spot for the people that made those she loved smile. They’d all been through so much.

 

“Well, do you have any romantic stories about the Night King?”

 

Bran laughs, but he does have several. They’re tragic in a way she used to think of as romantic. But she had seen sense – there wasn’t anything poetic in unnecessary suffering.

 

 

 

 

Later that night, she is on her way to Rickon’s chambers to discuss the matter of succession, but stops when she hears voices. The door is slightly ajar. “How do you make a girl fall in love with a boy?” Rickon’s voice asks with some hesitation.

 Sansa covers her mouth with her hand just in case a stray giggle gets out. It strikes her as adorable that Rickon would go to Osha for girl advice, and not her, if only because she can’t help but imagine Rickon acting out some sort of Wildling courtship. Lyanna would probably like that.

 

“Tormund said to just be yourself,” Rickon went on, “but what if girls don’t like you when you’re yourself?”

 

“Who wouldn’t like you?”

 

“It’s not me. I’m asking for a friend!” Rickon protests, and Sansa coughed to suppress a giggle. She was an excellent diplomat, but her little brother’s sweetness rendered her pretty useless sometimes.

 

“Is someone there?” Osha calls out, and Sansa snuck away before anybody saw her.

 

 

The Small Council Meetings that Sansa allowed the children to attend were not exactly pointless, but they did not discuss most of the significant issues. Rickon had been through enough. Her baby brother didn’t need to know about how bad things were. He was the North’s rallying point, but she was the North’s strength. These meetings were harder with Jon gone. He had been so good with Rickon and Lyanna. Well, at keeping them occupied so she could rule. Some project with one of his old friends and the creation of Valyrian steel, something that was doomed unless they had a dragon.

 

“Any other business?” Sansa asks at the end of the meeting, not surprised at all when Lyanna Mormont opens her mouth before she’d even gotten all of the words out.

 

“I’d like to propose a marriage alliance with House Stark,” Lyanna says, her hands delicately folded on the table and her mouth a flat line betraying no emotion.

 

Sansa couldn’t control a smirk as she caught Rickon’s eye. Her little brother and his tiny little lady were one of the most adorable things she’d seen in her life. Sometimes she found it hard to remember that Rickon was almost the same age she had been when she’d left for King’s Landing. She had rushed into adulthood too soon. She had thought she was a woman grown, but Rickon was just a tiny baby. Practically an infant. She wanted her little brother to have a better childhood than she had. One to make up for everything that had happened.  

 

“I think you and Rickon are both a tad young.”

 

But Lyanna shook her head.

 

“No, that wouldn’t be a good political match for Rickon. I’ve already sworn myself to House Stark and proven that House Mormont is a loyal vassal. It would be essentially useless.” Lyanna cleared her throat. “No, I would like to marry Jon Snow.”

 

“What?” Davos says, clearly as baffled as she is. He had made his fair share of Lyanna-and-Rickon jokes as well. The two of them got along well, both drawn to the children as both a  distraction and a reminder of what they were fighting for.

 

There is little that can shock her, but Sansa has to work at remaining a cool and neutral face.

 

“It would be a strategic alliance for you, as it would tie him to the North.” Lyanna pauses long enough for Sansa to realize that this was true and this plan, unlike most of Lyanna’s other plans, had some modicum of sense in it. “However, the reason I am willing to accept a southron bastard is because I am in love with him.”

 

Despite herself, her mouth drops open. There is silence in the room. Her eyes flicker from Lyanna, to Brienne, to Petyr, to Rickon. Brienne makes no effort to hide her disbelief, and Petyr is smirking in his typical begging-for-a-slap fashion.

 

Rickon doesn’t say a word, he just looks away with a blank expression on his face. Poor little angel.

 

Petyr breaks their moment of silence. “I think our Jon Snow would make a great Lord of Bear Island.” When he looks at Sansa knowingly, she wants to strangle him. Maybe she should. Would anyone miss him? “Who are we to stand in the way of young love?”

 

She looks away as though he hadn’t said anything at all. Life was a lot better when she pretended Petyr Baelish wasn’t real.

 

Instead her eyes focused on Lyanna, who had decided to articulate all of Jon's obviously appealing qualities as if Sansa was somehow unaware...

 

"Jon Snow is a very handsome man," Lyanna gushed, though her face showed no indication of an attraction, "Also physically strong, very good with... children, he has nice hair and large hands," Sansa swore Lyanna stole a look at Rickon, as though she was comparing the two of them, which was rather unfair in her mind. Of course Jon would have larger hands than Rickon. "He's also quite popular with the wildlings, so having him around would probably protect your lands from savages..." her voice drifted off, as though she had run out of things to say, but before Sansa could speak Lyanna continued, "also every woman in this castle finds him to be very appealing." 

 

 Jon was certainly no Joffrey, but Lyanna was too young to think she was in love with somebody she didn’t know. Especially given how horrible some of her reasoning was.

 

“We’ll discuss this later,” Sansa says, “any other business?”

 

When everybody filters out Sansa holds Rickon back. She leans down so they are face to face and grabs him by the shoulders. She kisses him on the forehead and then asks, “are you alright?”

 

Rickon stumbles slightly, but she holds him steady. He looks confused, but it’s obvious he’s play acting. “Of course. Are you alright?”

 

Sansa pauses and pushes her lips together, raising an eyebrow.

 

Rickon clears his throat. “Because of Jon… and Lyanna…?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Rickon looks to the side. He’s a horrible liar. “Well, are you okay? Are you… jealous?” Rickon asks her, mirroring what she was trying to ask him. She’s puzzled. Is this some sort of wildling deflection tactic? It wasn’t particularily effective.

 

“Why would I be jealous?”

 

“Because Jon is going to marry somebody else?”

 

She is dumbstruck but manages to keep her face perfectly composed. She hadn’t been that obvious, Rickon was clearly just being evasive because little boys don’t like to admit they have crushes. She lets go of Rickon’s shoulders and smiles at him reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Jon’s not going to be marrying Lyanna Mormont.” She's relieved when Rickon smiles as he runs along. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: Just wanted to confirm in case it wasn't clear.... Lyanna/Jon is not a thing. It's a scheme. Trying to trick Sansa into realizing her feelings for Jon by making her jealous. (✿◠‿◠)


	4. Chapter 4

With Jon gone, Rickon did nothing but worry.

 

Things hadn’t been perfect when he was home. Jon left too much. Sansa was always in her solar, hunched over her desk. But she spent more time than ever there now, writing frantically and debating with Ser Davos and Brienne. And he had this feeling in the pit of his stomach that Jon would never come back. That he was a Targaryen now. All his life people had been trying to steal his family. Or worse yet, kill them.

 

Sansa and Ser Davos had been gone for two days to rally troops from the Barrowlands when Galbart Glover arrived. Bran was supposed to be in charge, but had spent most of his time in an apparently urgent trance that Meera insisted couldn’t be interrupted. At least he was having his trances in the Godswood now, not in some ditch or cave or something.

 

So Rickon sat on the throne with only Lyanna and Osha beside him for advice when the old creep asked to marry his sister.

 

“How old are you?” he spits out, incredulous, feeling his temper rising. He didn’t understand why Lords all seemed so interested in marrying people young enough to be their daughters. They were disgusting. Almost all of these high lords and ladies looked down on Wildlings and the smallfolk, but Wildlings believed in love and he’d never caught one of them being a pervert before. “Older than my father, I think.”

 

When Rickon had first became King, Osha had told him he wasn’t allowed to bite anyone anymore. But so often he felt as though biting was the only real solution to his problems. So maybe he was being rude, but he didn’t bite Lord Glover.

 

Before the man has a chance to respond, Lyanna clears her throat. “The King is very protective over the Princess, I’m sure we can find you another bride.”

 

Rickon glared at her, but she kicked him under the table so he didn’t say anything.

 

Lyanna came to Rickon’s solar after dinner.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says before she has a chance to speak. “I just—”

 

Lyanna shook her head, “no, that’s not why I’m here. Besides, I think it’s good that they know you aren’t to be trifled with. But there’s been a raven from your brother,” she says, nodding to the parchment in her hand.

 

She was personally in charge of Rickon’s correspondence. Lyanna was so flattered by being honoured with the task that she didn’t think to question why Rickon was incapable of reading his own mail.  She read it aloud without being asked:

 

_Dear Rickon,_

_We have been on Dragonstone for five days now. I got your letter this morning. I hope you haven’t been too worried. No matter what, you will always by my brother. And in the words of your most loyal vassal, I know no King but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. Whether it’s you or Bran._

_Unfortunately, your first request is impossible to grant. But I have managed to obtain a dragon. It turns out that dragons like me, so The Dragon Queen is allowing me to take one for our use in our attempts to create Valyrian steel. No kidnapping was necessary. Her advisor Varys seems to have discovered the truth of my birth before Bran’s letter reached me. I have not kneeled.But in order to secure the Dragon, the dragonglass, and assistance in the fight beyond the wall, I have agreed to marry her after the war in order to prove our loyalty to this alliance and maintain the independence of the North._

_I have also sent for the lemons you asked for in your letter.  I am due to leave tonight, so I hope to see you soon._

_Your loyal subject,_

_Jon Snow_

Lyanna put the letter down on Rickon’s desk and sighed.

“She can’t find her own husband, so she abducted a Northerner,” Rickon couldn’t help grinding his teeth. Once he came of age, that would become a high crime. Punishable by death.

 

Lyanna frowned. “This is worse than that. The Targaryens are a murderous, insane, power-hungry bunch. Just look at who they associate with! My traitorous uncle, the Imp—”

 

“ _Theon Greyjoy_ ,” Rickon shuddered.

 

“Exactly. They want to take Jon so they can secure the North.”

 

“But _I’m_ King in the North, not him! Shouldn’t she want to marry me?” As if he’d ever consent to such a match under any circumstance other than to save his brother – _cousin_ – Lord Commander. Future Brother-in-law.

 

Lyanna shook her head. “No. They’ll keep Jon as a prisoner after they murder you and the rest of the Starks. Then they’ll install the Greyjoy scum as Warden of the North.”

 

Rickon’s eyes widened. Of course! Why would Theon ally with them except to finish the job and kill Rickon and Bran for good?

 

“They might take Sansa prisoner again too.” He gulped, “or maybe Theon will force her to marry him.”

 

“Probably, it’s a very common scheme.”

 

Rickon felt like he was going to be sick. It had been his fault for letting Jon go south at all. Only bad things happened when the Starks left Winterfell.

 

Rickon bit his lip, “what if we get her to marry somebody else? There are other Northerners…” ones he didn’t care about.

 

“Lord Glover,” Lyanna said, just as the old creep’s name popped into Rickon’s mind. He grinned at Lyanna, and was unable to contain a laugh of relief. They didn’t need people like that in the North, but they did need Jon.

 

“Just what I was thinking.”

 

Lyanna smiled, and caught his eye. Rickon felt suddenly flushed, but with something approximating happiness, not the anger he’d been feeling just moments before.

 

Lyanna always made him feel less like a wolf and more human, like a man and like a King. He’d told Osha once, and she’d just made suggestive noises and wiggled her eyebrows. Osha began begun calling her ‘his Little Lady’ long before he knew she meant it _like that_. He’d stupidly confirmed that she was in fact his Little Lady, because she was rather small and that was her title. But Osha had just tricked him. It most certainly wasn’t like that… that was ridiculous, the thought of him liking Lyanna or something… truly disgusting… him liking a girl? Just preposterous.

 

“We’ll compose a letter,” Lyanna said definitively, pulling out a quill and parchment from the little case she carried with her and sitting across from him at his desk.

 

He was thankful she hadn’t noticed that his cheeks had turned slightly pink, because she would be revolted if she knew that _some people_ thought he wanted to kiss her or hold her hand or have babies with her.

 

“Yeah,” Rickon cleared his throat and tried not to catch her eye, lest she know what was in his mind.

 

Lyanna was fiddling in her little case, and finally pulled out another piece of paper.

 

“What’s that?” he asked.

 

“She has a lot of titles, I don’t want to miss one and offend her,” Lyanna looked down at the piece of paper, “D-a-e-n-e-r-y-s? How do you say that?”

 

Rickon gulped. He had no idea. After all, he could not spell. He shrugged.

 

“Dan-error-iss, I think,” Lyanna rolled her eyes, “such a stupid name.” _Oh, southerners!_

 

Lyanna looked down at the piece of parchement, and read in a tone of derision as she copied down Daenerys’ titles: “Dan-error-iss Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, the Roynar, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Lady Paramount of the Crownlands, Princess of Dragonstone, Queen of Mereen, Khaleesi of the Great Green Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

 

“What’s my title again?” Rickon asked.

 

“Rickon Stark, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell.”

 

“That’s it?” It didn't have the same ring to it.

 

Lyanne shrugged, “we lost the Trident and the Riverlands. But we could say we have them, and then… offer to give them up.”

 

“Isn’t that lying?”

 

“That’s diplomacy.”

 

“And Jon’s just Jon Snow?”

 

“We’ve never given him a title. But maybe he’s Jon Targaryen now.”

 

Rickon let out a groan. Daenerys Targaryen clearly thought he wasn’t important, or that nobody would notice he was gone. Just a pretty face who could give her strong, handsome Northern babies. “Let’s make him some better titles. In the letter. So she knows how powerful he is.”

_I regret to inform you that I do not approve of your proposed marriage to my subject, Jon Snow of House Stark, The Prince Who Was Promised, Lord of the Dreadfort, The Man Who Came Back From The Dead and Lord Commander of the Armies of the North._

_The North will not become part of the South. Ever. We are prepared to withdraw our claims to everything South of Greywater Watch. We are also prepared to offer you a Northern Lord as a husband to help you rule the South, if you want one. Perhaps a Glover or Manderly or Karstark?_

_I am also willing to marry you when I come of age under several conditions. First, I do not have to go to the South. Second, you would never inherit the North but our children could if I die of natural causes. Third, you deliver Theon Greyjoy, Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister to me so I can administer the King’s Justice. They are wanted for murder, imprisonment of a Princess, and slaving, respectively, all capital crimes._

_We don’t want the South. You can have it. You may have dragons, but the North Remembers, and the North will never kneel again._

_Cordially,_

_Rickon of House Stark, Third of His Name, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell_

 

There is no response. And Jon does not return, or send any more letters. But there are rumours that he has flown north of the wall on a dragon. There are also rumours about how he's in love with Sansa and plans on marrying her when he returns, but Rickon had gotten Osha to start those.

 

 

More than a week later, here was a knock on the door, and before Rickon could answer it, Sansa pushed it open.

 

Sansa is grinning, “Jon has sent us a crate of lemons.” The fruit trees in the glass garden had all died.

 

“He must know how much you like them.”

 

Sansa looks down, “everyone knows that.”

 

“Very nice of him, though,” Rickon says, his voice trailing off, hoping Sansa would agree or compliment Jon or just remember how magnificent he was, even though he was gone. But she says nothing at all, and so neither does Rickon.

 

 “I hear you had a letter from him a fortnight past.”

 

“I did.”

 

“Can I read it?”

 

Rickon shook his head. “No. I burnt it.”

 

“Why?”

 

Rickon couldn’t help but let out a long sigh in frustration. “You know. To stay warm. Winter is coming!”

 

“A single piece of parchment?

 

Rickon looked away.

 

“What was in the letter, then?”

 

“Nothing important.”

 

Sansa sighs and leaves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update!! I've been quite busy with work and finishing my last 2 papers as an undergrad. This chapter is rather lacklustre because of all the all-nighters I've pulled over the past week, but I wanted to post something.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took awhile to write because mid-war Jon is hard to make fluffy??? I gave up in the end, but I don't think this counts as True Angst.
> 
> Also to the Dany fans who comment, Dany isn't the villain of this fic, and there's no true love triangle. This is from Jon's POV right after finding out that his family isn't his family so it doesn't paint her in the BEST light at first, but she's not the villain.

When Jon arrived at Dragonstone, he was homesick. Leaving Winterfell had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. The place itself was a dump, it was half in ruins and all of the people who had been there during his childhood were dead. And yet, it was still home. The two people who he loved most in the world, the only two members of his family who remained alive, had finally come home. Arya and Robb and Bran and his father may have died, but there was still something to live for.

 

He’s even more homesick after he learns the truth, and who this conquering Queen truly is to him.

 

He doesn’t particularly like his aunt. He’d probably like her more if she wasn’t his aunt, but he couldn’t be certain. By the time he’d met her, she’d already turned cities to waste. There had been letters from the South about Dothraki hoards and the murdered and raped smallfolk they left in their wake. Daenerys Targaryen was no liberator. She was a necessary evil.

 

When Varys recounts the tale of Rhaegar and Lyanna to Daenerys, she’d thought it was tragic and romantic. She seemed to have nothing but love for her precious brother – the man who had started a war that bled the country dry. It seemed as though in this telling, Jon’s very existence let Rhaegar off the hook.

 

But Jon felt sick. He thought of Sansa, and how she’d been taken advantage of for believing in love. Or Arya, who he could still remember holding in his arms, diving headstrong into the world only to be lost to its cruelty. The gods hadn’t been kind to Stark girls.

 

He stayed quiet about this, he was no fool no matter how impulsive death had made him. He believes it all to be some trick until Bran’s letter arrives that very same day. (His happiness that against insurmountable odds his crippled brother has survived the horrors of the north is only tempered by the loss he feels at learning his parentage.)

 

 

Deep down, he wanted to follow the advice Rickon had given him before he left. Sansa’s excuses for Tyrion didn’t matter. Jon may have liked the man once, but that had been an age ago, before he knew the bite of winter. Now he knew better. There was no excuse for the choices Tyrion Lannister had made.

 

He had planned to be diplomatic. But now his eyes narrow and he feels a storm begin to rage inside him. “Over my dead body will you take my sister prisoner again.”

 

Daenerys extended a hand to wave off Tyrion and her other advisors. “Leave us,” she says.

 

There is an ever present smugness embedded into Daenerys' face. Even when she’s not getting her way, it’s there. She thinks the world owes her something, but she’s not the first person to try to destroy their family.

 

“So how am I to ensure you won’t deplete my armies in your quest and then turn south?”

 

“I don’t want the iron throne. I’m no King, no conqueror.”

 

Daenerys raises one eyebrow. “You’ve been a Targaryen all of a day, you may well change your mind.”

 

Jon clenches his jaw. The past twenty-four hours had not been pleasant. He would not kneel, and he had made his allegiances apparent. “Take me as your prisoner then.”

 

“My _prisoner_? You are the only family I have left in the world.” Her voice is wistful, as though it is Jon who is letting her down.

 

“Call it something else, then.”

 

Daenerys shakes her head, “do you think Tyrion a cruel man? That you are saving your _cousin_ from some hellish fate? I was under the impression he was her protector at court.”

 

“What sort of protector marries a _child_ and helps keep her prisoner?” In truth, Sansa had not told him anything truly horrible about Tyrion, but he can feel his blood begin to boil. He hadn’t known how much he hated the man until he realized he had aims to reclaim her as if she could be owned. “My _sister_ just escaped another hellish fate – and where was her dutiful _Lord Husband_ to protect her? Looking for her? Fighting for her? Or did he sail across the world to look out for _you_.”

 

She tapped her fingernails on the hard arm of her makeshift throne. She is quiet for a long time and Jon realizes he made a mistake. She would burn him alive, just as her father had burned his uncle and grandfather.

 

She looks deep into his eyes, and he feels himself burn even hotter. When she opens her mouth, her words are even, “you are a true Targaryen, the blood of the dragon. The rest of the world may think you perverse for having such passion for the woman you call sister, but not I. Had I been born earlier, I might have married your father. If we hadn’t been penniless, I might have married my other brother.”

 

The blood drains from his face. Was this what they would bond over? Incest?

 

He thinks back on that kiss, so gentle it may have been an apparition. It had never felt wrong, it had only been easy and sweet. But it had been nothing but the shortest reprieves of duty – it was something that could never be. She knew that too, she had run away. He knew now that she must feel shame at it, that there was something wrong inside him that he didn’t.

 

“But we are at an impasse. If I give you her, how am I to ensure your loyalty? Shall I marry the so-called King in the North? I would gain a kingdom, but he too is a child.”

 

“I only want Sansa’s freedom,” he says, the lie heavy on his tongue. Yes, he wanted her freedom – that was a hill he would die on – but he had other desires he rarely let himself dwell on. He had imagined what she would feel like underneath him as he held her in his arms to say goodbye. He had thought of her in the baths the first night at Dragonstone.

 

“Then you shall have it. Sansa Stark can remain in the North. But not in exchange for your own freedom, Jon _Targaryen_. I do not want a prisoner; I want your loyalty.” She says this as though she is being generous, as though his family’s freedom is hers to give. But what did he expect? She thinks that an entire continent is hers by right.

 

“I have sworn my fealty to the King in the North. The loyalty of an oathbreaker means nothing.”

 

“The loyalty of a hostage means nothing either. But the loyalty of a husband is a different matter entirely.”

 

 

He has a lot of time to think beyond the wall, when he’s not in the middle of a battlefield. He would claim Lyanna Stark as a mother, but that meant claiming the man who kidnapped her his father. Who was he, if he wasn’t Ned Stark’s son? He’d spent years wondering about his mother. He’d always thought if he found her, he’d feel whole. But really, he’d only lost the man he called father. His mother was dead, and before that she’d been kidnapped (and maybe he was born of rape, but that seemed to be up for debate). 

 

He thinks too of the possibility that Sansa is no longer is sister, but his cousin. It didn’t truly sink in until he was battle-worn and bloody. And by then, of course, he’s promised to marry another.

 

 

Two months later, he’s drinking ale by the fire at Castle Black after eating his first hearty lunch in all that time. He’s thinking of Ser Alliser, and how in the end he had been right. He’d been nothing but a green boy, unblooded and unprepared for winter.

 

Tormund appears beside him. Jon’s chest tightens when he sees him. Why was he here? Tormund had promised to look after Rickon and Sansa in his absence. A dozen pieces of horrific news flash through his mind in a single moment.

 

“The King sent me,” Tormund says, “he’s worried.”

 

Jon’s entire body relaxes.

 

“Rickon’s your King now?”

 

The wildlings all adored Rickon. Sure, they went to war for Jon, but that hadn’t been purely out of gratitude. They’d wanted to survive.

 

But Tormund was an idealist, a holdout.

 

“He’s a good lad. He’s no kneeler.”

 

“Of course he doesn’t kneel. He’s the king, we kneel to him.”

 

Tormund is offended, “he’s one of us. He fights like one of us,” there is a sparkle in Tormund’s eye, as if he’s describing his own brother, not Jon’s, “not afraid to bite or scratch.”

 

“Well you can report back to him that I’m safe and sound. I’m afraid I won’t be going back to Winterfell with you, though.”

 

“No, the King says I am to stay with you, to keep _you_ safe,” Tormund said, shaking his head.

 

Jon opens his mouth to reply but the door bursts open again. Edd enters with a strained smile, followed by… Lyanna Mormont?

 

How drunk was he? Certainly too drunk to be entertaining an eleven-year-old girl here of all places. Especially an eleven-year-old girl who, according to the last letter he received from Sansa before heading north of the wall, thought herself in love with him.

 

Jon stands. “Lady Mormont… what brings you to Castle Black?” he asks. This was no place for her, she was not safe on either side of the wall.

 

“I am the Assistant Hand to the King and Rickon has sent me to ascertain your whereabouts and report back to him.” Lyanna made strong eye contact with him while she spoke, but her eyes broke from his once she’d finished speaking and looked around the hall, appraising it, and judging.

 

“Should the hand… not… be with the King?” Jon stammers out, thinking back to something Davos had told him.

 

Lyanna turned back to Jon and did a double take, flabbergasted. “Is that not for _the King_ to decide?”

 

Jon’s mouth fell open. Luckily, Edd intervened with a strained smile. “I shall have a room made up for you, milady.”

 

Lyanna raised a hand in protest, “unnecessary, I require nothing but a meal. The three of us will ride to Winterfell within the hour. We won’t waste perfectly good daylight.”

 

Tormund lets out a small sigh, and grabs Jon’s ale, chugging it in three gulps before extending the tankard to Edd to refill. Edd is grateful for the task and makes a hasty exit.

 

“I’m afraid I cannot ride with you, my Lady. I have to return to Dragonstone. Queen Daenerys has sent for me.”

 

“I never thought I’d have to go that South,” Tormund grumbles.

 

“You won’t, I’ll be riding a dragon there,” when Tormund’s face only looked more morose, he clarified, “alone.”

 

“It would be a shame if you came back from the dead only to be beheaded by your own brother for treason,” Lyanna said, her voice cold and hard.

 

“It would,” Jon replied, again at a loss for words.

 

If a girl was to have a crush on him, he would prefer it to be a girl more like Sansa, gentle with her kisses and affections. Lyanna Mormont was somehow more aggressive than Ygritte, who had released arrows into him.

 

“Worse than that, you make traitors of me and your friend here. We have sworn to our King – _your King_ , might I remind you – that we will stay with you until you return to Winterfell.”

 

 

Riding a dragon with Tormund and Lyanna Mormont clutching onto either side of him was probably the least pleasant thing Jon had ever experienced, and that included being stabbed to death. But he doesn’t take them all the way to Dragonstone, he drops them off an hour’s walk from Winterfell. They protested, but he had a dragon, so they couldn’t really do much.

 

 

When he does arrive at Dragonstone, he is summoned into the throne room immediately. Beside Daenerys stood her handmaiden Missandei, Tyrion Lannister, and Theon Greyjoy. He was happy to see Missandei, at least, who was always a treat to be around, so he gave her a weak smile to stop himself from beating Theon to death right then and there.

 

Danerys splits no hairs. She launches immediately into an accusation. “I have wanted nothing but your loyalty, and already you have betrayed me. You are married already.”

 

“I assure you I am not.”

 

“Well, I’ve had a letter from the young Rickon Stark. Missandei?”

 

“I regret to inform you that I do not approve of your proposed marriage to my subject, Jon Snow of House Stark, The Prince Who Was Promised, Lord of the Dreadfort, The Man Who Came Back From The Dead and Lord Commander of the Armies of the North,” Missandei read. His aunt was lucky to have her, for where Daenerys was a storm, Missandei was the calm that followed it.

 

Jon can’t help but laugh. Because he is tired and because while he was gone he has gained titles even more embarrassing than his aunts, and because he misses his brother more than he’d known.

 

Daenerys narrows her eyes – she is not a woman used to being laughed at. “You’ve married the Lady of the Dreadfort, then? Lady Sansa?”

 

His mind immediately corrects her – _Princess_ Sansa – but then he realizes what Rickon’s exercise in creativity had meant. “I have not. Rickon’s… well, Rickon’s eleven years old. His hand… is another eleven-year-old. I think they just wanted to make me sound important.” He’s still smiling, he can’t help it. He is so very tired this may as well be a dream.

 

But Daenerys is not appeased. He stiffens. “When I saw you last, I thought the princess was my sister. And I have not returned to Winterfell.”

 

“Well, it seems our engagement has caused a diplomatic incident. Missandei?”

 

The dutiful Missandei began to read again: “The North will not become part of the South. Ever. We are prepared to withdraw our claims to everything South of Greywater Watch. We are also prepared to offer you a Northern Lord as a husband to help you rule the South, if you want one. Perhaps a Glover or Manderly or Karstark?”

 

It was surreal to hear “Rickon’s” (probably Lyanna Mormont’s, since he had a nagging suspicion his King was illiterate) declarations be given such a calm and diplomatic rendition. But he dare not laugh again, as Daenerys was staring him right in the eye.

 

“I am also willing to marry you when I come of age under several conditions. First, I do not have to go to the South. Second, you would never inherit the North but our children could if I die of natural causes. Third, you deliver Theon Greyjoy, Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister to me so I can administer the King’s Justice. They are wanted for murder, imprisonment of a Princess, and slaving, respectively, all capital crimes.”

 

Clearly, this was the first time Daenerys had shared the letter with her Hand, as Tyrion Lannister’s face betrayed his disbelief. It was also clear that she’d sent for Theon Greyjoy just so he could be here for this. But say what you will about Theon Greyjoy (and Jon had a lot of nasty things to say about him), he at least had the decency to look glum and resigned to such a fate.

 

Tyrion opens his mouth to speak before thinking better of it, not once but five times. Jon feels a rush of love for Rickon, and even a little bit of pride in Lyanna. The best thing about this letter was that it got Tyrion Lannister to shut up.

 

“We don’t want the South. You can have it. You may have dragons, but the North Remembers, and the North will never kneel again. Cordially, Rickon Stark, Third of His Name, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell.”

 

“Hmmm… wasn’t particularly cordial,” Tyrion says, and nobody laughs, because it’s a terrible joke. Somehow, he manages to make things even more awkward. Theon finds a bit of wall to focus on.

 

Daenerys’ expression is searching now. It’s not as harsh as it has been before. Perhaps she trusts him now, because she asks, “and what do you think I should do?” There is no trace of accusation in her voice, she only wants to know.

 

“Honestly?” he asks, and Daenerys nods, so he continues, “you need to understand that I am of the North, no matter what’s in my blood. And I'll die there happily. Besides, if I wanted to be King, I would be King. I have a friend studying at the Citadel, and he found a letter from Robb naming me his heir. But I told him to burn it.” Jon runs a hand through his hair. “The wildlings… they were loyal to _me_ for saving their lives, I could have crowned myself King,” that part was not entirely true, but nobody is here to contradict him, “if I was so ambitious, I could have killed Rickon. But I don’t want to be King of anything, let alone the South.”

 

He realizes that none of the people in front of him understand. They had all done unspeakable things in their own pursuit of power. So he forces a smile that comes across as a grimace, as per usual.

 

“I am loyal to you because I want nothing but peace, and you’re our best shot at it.”

 

Terrible state of affairs that it’s true.

 

A relieved smile passes over Daenerys’ face before her face sets into an expression that might be less menacing than he’d believed. “It’s settled then, the two of us will ride to Winterfell and make peace with your brother. I will not give him my allies, of course, but I will release you from our engagement.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I'm out of writing practice, so this turned out a bit goofier than expected. Rickon's mind is a very dramatic headspace.

Lyanna arrives in the courtyard covered in snow, with the softest look on her face. But as Rickon comes closer, he realizes it’s not softness at all, but rather defeat. He's just never seen her give up on anything before. He knows in the pit of his stomach before she says anything. After all, Jon isn't with them.

 

“I’ve failed you,” she says, staring at her feet.

 

Even Tormund looks dejected, his broad shoulders slumped as he stalks off to greet Brienne across the courtyard.

 

Rickon presses his lips together. He won’t cry, he  _won’t._  He balls his fists at his sides, his jagged fingernails pressing into his calloused palms. “Well, he’s made his choice then,” Rickon says, and turns on his heel. Kings don’t cry. Not over traitors to the realm.

 

Tears don’t actually come. He’s been fighting them for years. People leave. And then they die. That’s just the way of the world. But his chest sinks in anyway, and his eyes feel heavy. He wishes Osha was here to rub his back, but he’d told her he wasn’t a baby anymore.

 

He must have been lying in bed for two hours before there’s a light knock on his door.

 

“Yes!” he calls out, sitting up and straightening his clothes.

 

Sansa peeks her head in. “You missed dinner.”

 

Rickon shrugs. “I wasn’t hungry.”

 

“Lady Mormont also seems very upset.”

 

Rickon shrugs again.

 

Sansa walks across the room and sits down next to him, she wraps her arm around his shoulders and kisses his temple. At least _she_ wasn’t gone. He knew she’d never leave. There was nothing left for either of them outside of these castle walls. Sansa didn’t have a secret family or a desire to become a tree. Even if she wanted to betray them, where would she go?

 

“Rickon, did you and Lyanna have a fight?”

 

He shakes his head no, and finally tears start to flow. He doesn’t want to talk about his traitorous brother, but he doesn't want to talk about Lyanna either.

 

“She would only tell me that she let you down,” Sansa’s hands are gentle as the run through his hair. Sometimes when she did this he swore he remembered his mother’s hands, and they were just as soft. But in two moons he’ll be twelve. He knows now he’s just imagining it. He doesn’t remember his mother. All of it had been in his head.

 

Rickon jerks his head away. “She let you down too,” he says before letting out a sigh of frustration. “No, Jon let you down.”  _I let you down._

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I lied to you. There was news in Jon’s letter.”

 

“What news, Rickon? Is he hurt, or –"

 

“He’s not coming home, he’s getting married instead,” Rickon says, and now it’s not just straight tears but hysterical sobs. He was a terrible King. Robb would never cry.

 

He felt Sansa’s stiffen against him. “I see.”

 

Rickon buries his face in his hands. She can’t see him like this. He’s the one who is supposed to protect her.

 

“It’s okay. I’m sure we’ll see him again… he’ll invite us to the wedding.”

 

“I’m not going to the wedding,” he growls, regretting it the moment angrily spits out his words. But he can’t help it. He wants to kill all of them – Daenerys, Theon, Tyrion, that “Varys” character Jon mentioned in his letter, whoever he was!

 

Sansa sighs, and rubs his back. And he loves her, he does, but he wishes it was Osha instead. He didn’t feel bad growling at her. She would roll her eyes or growl right back or go kill whatever (or whoever) was bothering him.

 

“Rickon, it’s normal to get married. You’ll get married too, one day. I’m sure he’s happy.”

 

Rickon huffed, “he better not be.”

 

“He’s your brother.”

 

“No he’s not. He’s a  _Targaryen_. He’s even doing one of their incest marriages.”

 

Now Sansa’s voice is steely, “he’s marrying Daenerys Targaryen?”

 

“It’s pronounced Dan-error-is, I think.”

 

“Did he say he was in love with her? In the letter?” Sansa asks.

 

“Of course he’s not in love with her! You weren’t in love with the Imp! She’s trapped him.”

 

Sansa sighs. “From what I’ve heard she’s very beautiful.”

 

“Not as beautiful as you.”

 

“That’s sweet, but we’ve never laid eyes on her.”

 

She’s still rubbing his back, but she’s tenser. He knows now that Sansa doesn’t want Jon to marry Daenerys either. Maybe their plans had worked. Sansa had realized what an excellent husband and father and best friend Jon would be. She’d realized he had nice hair and big hands and was  _really_  good at fighting. But it was too late. Daenerys had realized it too. And she had dragons. Sansa didn't even have a direwolf.

 

“We could steal him back,” Rickon offers, looking up at his sister from the corner of his eye. Sansa didn’t know much about Wildlings, but if she did steal him, even if he was wrong and it was just as a brother, she would be married to him by default whether she liked it or not.

 

“He’s a man grown. He has free will, and marriage is hardly a crime.”

 

“It  _is_  a crime. Treason. Lyanna told me.”

 

“You want to steal Jon so we can try him for treason?”

 

“He swore fealty to  _me_ , not her.”

 

“We’re not beheading Jon.”

 

Rickon sighed. They were both so  _impossible._  “Of course we’re not going to behead him!  _Maybe_ her. I want him to marry  _you_  and it’s  _my_  Kingdom, so I should get at least  _one_  thing.”

 

Sansa doesn’t say anything at all. He turns and looks at her, but her face is devoid of any emotion. It’s like she’s not even there. Finally, she smiles at him, though her eyes are still faraway.

 

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to get you something else,” she says, squeezing his arm before letting go and leaving the room.

 

 

 

Three days pass by. Lyanna doesn’t even try to talk to him. Usually, she badgered him incessantly, but she avoids his eyes. Sansa doesn't tuck him in before bed anymore. He supposes he should get used to it. He's too old for that. What would his bannermen think if they knew how much he enjoyed his bedtime stories? 

 

He's so sick of being avoided, he decides instead to avoid _them_ to show them how little he needed them.

 

He heads to the godswood on the fourth day and wedges himself between Bran and Meera. 

 

"I'm so bored," Rickon says with a sigh. Bran has his creepy eyes again, so he looks at Meera. "Do you think he's going to wake up any time soon?"

 

Meera shrugged, "I'm not sure. He's been out for hours, but then, he's been out for way longer than this."

 

Rickon groaned. "Isn't it dull? Just sitting here and watching him?"

 

"Sometimes, but that's not  _all_  I do..." Meera sounded almost offended. But it basically  _was_  all she did.

 

"Does he take requests?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Say I want to know what somebody is doing _right now_ , or maybe, why they made a horrible mistake, could Bran find out for me?"

 

Meera shakes her head, her eyes sympathetic. "I don't think it works like that. 

 

Suddenly, Bran jerked awake. "Dragons," he says, his voice fearful. 

 

 

Even though Rickon hated the Three Eyed Raven so much he loathed not just all ravens but all trees, he was beginning to think the omniscience thing could be helpful. For barely twenty minutes later, there  _were_  dragons flying over Winterfell. Shaggydog was much smarter than people gave him credit for, and he instinctually moved to Rickon's side to protect him. Shaggy was so happy to finally be let out of the Godswood, he gave a celebratory growl at those working in the courtyard.

 

When Rickon and Shaggy arrived in the Great Hall, Lyanna and Sansa were already there.

 

“I think it would be better if I did the talking,” Sansa says, her back stiff but her face gentle.

 

“Fine,” Rickon says. There was nothing he wanted to say to them anyway.

 

But then Jon and Daenerys entered the room and Daenerys was wearing a cloak that looked suspiciously like Jon’s cloak. Not the one Sansa had made, of course, that would have been an unimaginable slight, but his more ragged backup one. Still, it rubbed him the wrong way.

 

Despite the obvious betrayal right in front of his eyes, his gracious sister smiled warmly, “welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace… Jon.”

 

Rickon refused to even look at Jon. What use did he have for traitors? Instead he stares right into Daenerys’ villainous purple eyes. “What do you want?” he spits out.

 

Sansa clears her throat, “you must excuse my brother, he grew up on the run from our enemies without a maester or –“

 

“Yes, yes, my nephew has told me all about your family’s struggles,” Daenerys nods.

 

How dare she?  _Her_  nephew? She got everything, didn’t she! Nephews! Husbands! Dragons! Jon was probably teaching  _her_ swordplay now too. And who did Rickon have? Well, Brienne was an excellent teacher, but that was besides the point. Rickon grated his teeth.

  

“I would like to address the King alone, Lady Stark.”

 

“Sansa’s not a Lady. She’s a  _Princess_ ,” Jon says. Rickon finally stole a look at Jon, who just looked glum and serious.

 

Daenerys rolled her eyes.

 

His perfect sister waved off Daenerys’ vile show of disrespect with an agreeable nod, “semantics.”

 

“Would you give me the honor of a private audience, _Your Grace_?” Daenerys asked.

 

Rickon sighed. “Fine.”

 

Sansa opened her mouth to protest but Jon shook his head. “Its fine, Sansa. And we should… talk.”

 

Rickon suddenly jerked his head to look over at his sister, who gulped and said, “oh, alright, then,” and stood up.

 

Everyone filtered out of the room until he was alone with Daenerys.

 

“It would be stupid of you to try to make an attempt on my life,” Rickon advised Daenerys through narrowed eyes. “Your dragons can’t help you here. Shaggy would rip your throat out.”  

 

“If I was going to kill you, I already would have.”

 

He did not have a good response to that. She had a point. “So, what do you want to discuss?”

 

“Your letter. I thought it would be better to deal with our problems directly, rather than through diplomatic envoys.”

 

“You just don’t have any diplomatic envoys that aren’t wanted for high crimes against The North.”

 

Daenerys laughs. “Can we speak plainly? We have the same enemies, don’t we? When I take King’s Landing, I will depose the family that murdered your brother and mother.”

 

Rickon looks down at the table. He didn’t want to think about that. He hated when anybody brought up the Red Wedding. He’d bit Osha when she told him about it. That had been the very worst day – worse than watching Maester Luwin die or walking away from Bran.

 

“Why did it upset you when you found out me and your cousin were making a marriage alliance?”

 

“How would you feel if I tried to marry the Lord Commander of  _your_  army without asking you?”

 

“I don’t think I’d mind if you were going to arm me and give me thousands of soldiers and ships.”

 

Rickon sighed.

 

“The Lannisters murdered my family too. My neice and nephew and their --” Daenerys says, as though it’s the same.

 

“My father killed your family too. They deserved it. _Your_ family killed my family! _My_ uncle and _my_ grandfather. And they stole Jon's mother! And now you’re stealing _my_ brother.”

 

Shaggydog sensed Rickon’s disapproval and growled at Daenerys, who took a step back. Rickon gave his direwolf a pat on the head and relaxed. “It’s okay,” he says, scratching behind Shaggy's ear.

 

Daenerys’ mouth formed into a tight smile that didn’t reach her tired eyes. “ _I’m_ not them. And I don’t want to steal your brother. I just want… I understand… I know what it’s like to not have a family. To not have a single soul you can trust.”

 

But she didn’t understand, did she? Because Rickon _did_ have a family. They were here and _alive_ and he _could_ trust them – with his life, with his kingdom, with his heart. It was just a struggle to keep all of them together. They were so much stronger when they were together.

 

 “If you understood then you’d give Jon back.”

 

“I plan on it. I have a proposal, actually.”

 

Rickon gulped. “I’ll hear it.”

 

“You are far too young to be King. You don’t seem to particularly like being King, and you have an older sister who is doing an exemplary job as your Regent, from what your cousin tells me.”

 

Rickon pressed his lip together, and thought on it. She was right. He _hated_ being King. “Sansa is good at everything she does.”

 

“I would advise you make her Queen and marry her to Jon.”

 

Rickon’s jaw dropped slightly. He burrowed his hand in Shaggydog’s coat.

 

“I know it might seem rather odd to you, your brother marrying your sister… but they are not really brother and sister, and it is the Targaryen way.”

 

Usually calling something the Targaryen way was a sure-fire way to make it lose its appeal, but it _was_ a good idea.

 

“Jon will get to stay in the North?”

 

“Yes. You’ll name your sister Queen in the North and when they marry, my nephew will be King.”

 

The offer was so tempting. He wouldn’t have to be King anymore, Jon would come home forever, and Sansa and Jon could fill Winterfell with children… but… there was a catch.

 

“It’s a good plan,” he says, his voice much softer now. “And I would… but… Sansa needs to… I can’t make her… she needs to be in love. Not a pawn. People make offers for her all the time. I need to protect her.” Rickon pauses, and forces the edge back into his voice, “if we can’t win the war against the White Walkers without my sister being violated, then we’ll all die.”

 

Daenerys gives the first genuine smile of their entire encounter. She isn’t so ugly, he supposes, in the right light. Not as beautiful of Sansa, of course, but she was only human.

 

Rickon clears his throat, “my offer of marriage still stands, Your Grace.”

 

“I don’t think that will be necessary. If I have a nephew to shore up loyalty in the North, I would be inclined to marry elsewhere,” she pauses, “what makes you think your sister is so disinclined towards him?”

 

He doesn’t have an answer for that. He shrugs.

 

“Jon Snow is in love with _her_ , if that makes any difference,” Daenerys says, her mouth forming into a knowing smirk and Rickon thinks she might not actually be so bad at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this in my drafts for awhile, because it's about 600 words shorter than my average chapter. but idk what to add to it, really. so, here you go! :) the goal is to finish this before s7 starts! hopefully before july 1st.

Sansa hadn’t realized how much she relied on Jon until he was gone. But it was not the ease with which he rallied their allies or his mindful eyes on the rebuilding of the castle she yearned for. It was his steady hand on her shoulder just when she thought she might burst into tears. It was the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at the end of the day, when it was only the two of them and how he listened to her stories as though she was the only thing left on the planet that mattered. On those nights, once Rickon had fallen asleep and the castle was quiet and still, she’d felt a completeness she hadn’t thought possible anymore. Finally, her heart was not wistful, and she was home. 

 

Of course it was love. Perhaps she had known from the start, from that very first day when she’d jumped into his arms. Or maybe she’d realized around the time she’d stopped feeling like a walking corpse. But she hadn’t dared to dream, even when she’d caught his lips in hers. She’d been sensible and reasonable, and only after learning the secret had she dared get caught up like the silly little girl she always was, underneath it all. 

 

There’s a war on and she didn’t have the luxury to act like the lovestruck teenager she was, but there are moments, cracks in her well-cultivated façade. 

 

When the months he’s been gone feel like years and she’s itching for news and runs to Bran, he smiles gently. “You shouldn’t worry about Jon so much. He’ll come back to you -- to all of us.”

 

“Is that what your trees tell you?” she asks, feigning lightheartedness. 

 

“Yes,” Bran says, sighing, clearly sick of being teased about this. “And what Jon told you.”

 

“I can’t help but worry,”

 

“There’s no need, this isn’t how he’ll die.”

 

“You know how he’s going to die?”

 

Bran looked down, as though he’d already said too much. “I’m going to warg now,” he says, and his eyes fly back in his head. Sansa sighs, not the least bit comforted. 

 

And then there was Rickon. Rickon, her baby boy who was not magical, who didn’t see things in trees, who hadn’t come back from the dead. Rickon, who held the real truth. That all of her silly, giddy hope had been for nothing.

 

 

 

 

By the time Jon arrives, Sansa is no better than Rickon. She never wants to see Jon again. She doesn’t hate him, no, that’s not it at all. Rather, she feels silly. She had fancied the pair of them at the heart tree, their hands intertwined. She had hoped for so much, too much, more than she’d ever get…. And here she was, the same stupid little girl she’d been in King’s Landing. For he loved another, another who was standing before them in his cloak. 

 

 

 

Once in the hallway, Sansa holds her head high as she turns to him. 

 

“What is it you wanted to speak with me about?”

 

In his eyes there are traces of an apology, but Sansa turns her face to stone.

 

“We have so much to get caught up on.”

 

“Do we? I think I have the gist of it. You’re a Targaryen, you’ve chosen to ally yourself with the Targaryen cause, you’re marrying your aunt, Daenerys Targaryen.”

 

Jon’s lips part, and his eyes are so pleading, she almost gives him a chance to explain. “May we talk alone?” he gestures to Lyanna and Brienne, who remain at her sides.

 

“Do you think we’d leave her without any protection?” Lyanna growls, crossing her arms and looking up at Jon, “you’re our enemy now.”

 

“Your enemy?” Jon asks, incredulous.

 

“You’ve made your allegiance clear. It’s our job to protect the North’s regent.”

 

Sansa isn’t entirely sure what Lyanna could do to protect her against Jon. But she thought the effort admirable. For her part, Brienne didn’t correct Lyanna and stood with her mouth in a thin line.

 

“I went south to make an alliance for  _ our _ cause.”

 

“And you came back with a wife,” the retort slips out of Sansa’s mouth without her consent, but she keeps her back straight and doesn’t back down.

 

“She’s not my wife.” 

 

“Betrothed, then,” Lyanna spits out as though she’s the one who has been spurned. Maybe she was. Maybe Lyanna still hoped she would be bringing Jon home to Bear Island at the end of the war. “The princess has a lot of work to do, traitor. She doesn’t have time to deal with you.”

 

Sansa has to look down to conceal a smirk at Jon’s mystified face.

 

“Sansa, I have a lot to explain. But… I’d really hoped to do it alone.” 

 

Jon was not good with words, especially not in front of so many people. And besides, she’d tortured him enough if she expected anyone to buy the apathetic act.

 

“Alright,” she says, waving Brienne and Lyanna off.

 

“In my solar, perhaps?”

 

“I’m afraid you don’t have a solar anymore. I gave it to Lyanna when I learned of your defection.”

 

“You gave my war room to an eleven year old?”

 

“She has a lot of work to do. As hand to the hand of the King.”

 

Jon sighs, “your solar then?”

 

“How about the crypts. To see your mother, before you leave again.”

 

“I don’t… I will return… this is my home.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“How can you say that to me? After everything I’ve done to win it back for you -- for, all of us?”

 

The accusation cuts deep. She looks down, “I’m sorry, it’s just…” her voice trails off and she doesn’t know what to say. None of it is right, is it?  _ I didn’t expect to lose you too, it’s too much _ . But he doesn’t belong to her, he never did, and so she cannot say such things.

 

She stands there without speaking, and he shakes his head. 

 

“Nevermind… let’s just… let’s talk in the crypts, then,” Jon says.

 

They are silent as they make their way down to the crypts, beneath the castle. For all the pleasant courtesies she’s learned, she has no idea how to make small talk with him. He is no stranger, but she fears any word she speaks will reveal her hopeless affection.

 

“Do you remember playing in here as a little kid?” Jon asks from behind her.

 

“Not really,” she admits.

 

“Maybe you weren’t there…” 

 

“Maybe not. We weren’t close as kids, were we? I’m afraid I didn’t like you very much,” she says.

 

She can hear his grimace in his voice, “there was a time when you liked me just fine.”

 

“Oh really?”

 

“I remember you as a baby quite clearly, actually.”

 

“So before I could talk, then?” she feels ashamed at her stupidity, really, for maybe if she had been different, kinder, more open minded, he wouldn’t have thought to leave her. He would feel as connected to her as he did to Arya. But now she was neither a true sister nor a lover, just a cousin who existed in some far-flung castle, who relied on him too much and had never cared for him in the right way. 

 

“Longer than that,” he says as they stop in front of Lyanna’s tomb. 

 

Lyanna Stark is beautiful, just like her son. Sansa has spent too much time down here since he’s been gone. She’d spent far too much time comparing Jon’s face to hers. Thinking of him. Thinking of the pair of them.

 

“I’m sorry for who I was when I was a kid,” she says, looking at Lyanna’s statue and not Jon. She can’t look at him. “I’m sorry I’m in such a mood now.” Tears are coming to her eyes, and she can’t will them away. They’ve been building in her for days, kept down only by spite and betrayal. But how can she hate him while he’s here, being so wonderful and patient and just…  _ himself _ ? 

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t write,” he says glumly.

 

“You don’t owe me anything. And you’re right, how can I question you… after everything that you’ve done for us?” 

 

She was always wrong, wasn’t she? Wrong in who she gave her affections to, wrong in who she trusted. Only she’d thought by some miracle she’d finally gotten it right this time.

 

“Sansa…” Jon starts, “I’m not going to marry anyone. I’m not going anywhere. I pledged my sword to House Stark and I will keep that oath till my dying day.”

 

She turns to him. “Promise?” she asks.

 

“I promise,” he says, and reaches his hand over to brush a stray piece of her hair out of her eyes. 

 

He doesn’t move her hand away. Instead, he takes her face in his hand. His thumb rubs her cheek. 

 

She holds her breath, she knows what’s coming, and without thinking about it their lips meet in the middle. 

 

This is real, this is everything to her. This is the culmination of her girlish hopes and dreams, of two other marriages, of their house almost destroyed, of the dead buried in this crypt and their dead who’d never made it back. 

 

He kisses her, and it’s not like what they’d shared before. That kiss had been stolen, nothing more than a momentary thing, she’d allowed herself to forget who she was and give into impulse. This is heavy. This could be it, her happy ending, everything she’d always wanted. 

 

And the weight of it all comes crashing down on her as soon as his lips leave hers, the sweetness gone.

 

“I have to go,” she says, and she leaves him behind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, a chapter update of this fic. Thanks to all the reviewers and suppourt I’ve gotten, and sorry for the wait. I hope you like this! 
> 
> My Secret Santa present to my friend Tia is to finish this fic, and so the rules friendship demand I finish the last two chapters soon.

“Lady Mormont here to see you, ser.”

“Send her in,” ser Davos said, and his guard moved aside. Davos had only the warmest smile for her, and Lyanna smiled smugly in return. She couldn’t help but be proud at the excellent job she had done as Assistant Hand of the King. Davos always made it very clear that he depended on her hard work, and always let her use the king’s wax seal on his official correspondence. This was obviously one of the most important parts of diplomacy. That and looking tough. 

While was true that Ser Davos had technically replaced her in her role as Hand of the King, and that his appointment had made her so sad she’d fell asleep crying more than one night, Lyanna found herself drawn to the Onion knight. The man may be a southerner, but he gave excellent advice.

And much more importantly than that, he always had hard sweets in his pocket to give to her.

“Do you have any more pynade?” Lyanna asked.

Ser Davos reached into his pocket and presented Lyanna with the wrapped treat.

Davos’ supply of sweets was the only good thing to come out of Jon Snow’s foray to Dragonstone. The King in the North’s own brother had agreed to marry a Targaryen, humiliating the entire country. Some may be impressed or even jealous that Lyanna had gotten to ride a dragon. But in truth, it was terrifying and uncomfortable. She was never sure where to hold on, or what she should be doing with her hands. Thankfully Tormund the wildling had volunteered to come along, because he made sure she stayed on the dragon much better than Jon Snow, who seemed afraid to touch her even when she was screaming.

“What do I owe for the pleasure of your company?” Ser Davos asked.

Lyanna sighed. She knew what she had to do, but that didn’t make the task any easier. “I’m afraid I need to betray the King’s confidence.”

Davos pushed his eyebrows together and leaned closer to her. “Is this about Rickon’s matchmaking plans?”

Lyanna nodded gravely. “It is indeed. And I wouldn’t confess it to you, except that as Hand I think you have a right to know.”

“What do you think I need to know?”

Lyanna had grown tired of Rickon’s plans. It had been amusing in the beginning, if only because she wanted to please her only friend, but now it was merely a distraction. It had been folly to think that she and Rickon could make two people fall in love, especially if they used to be brother and sister. She never would have believed something so stupid if Princess Sansa hadn’t taken away her map table! But before the plans had been in good fun, they hadn’t been crimes against the North.

“The King in the North wishes to kneel.”

Davos laughed good naturedly. “I don’t think Rickon is about to kneel anytime soon... he wants his brother to warg the dragons and have them fight each other to the death.”

Lyanna smiled remembering when Rickon had first brought that up to her. “Yes, that was a good plan. Sadly Prince Brandon has decided it is better to cooperate with foreign invaders. And... though this seems completely out of character for the King, he too has decided to cooperate. He wants to sign the North over to Queen Dan-error-is’ heir.”

Lyanna had to resist the urge to spit on the floor in distaste. Though such behaviour was acceptable — neigh, even encouraged! — in the North, Southerners had very strict ideas about ‘hygiene’ and ‘decorum’. Lyanna knew this could only be a sign of their inherent weakness.

“To Queen—” Davos began, and then it dawned on him. “Rickon wants to make Jon King?”

“Well, Jon and Sansa. Before he just wanted them to get married. Now he wants them to get married and to give them the entire North!”

“Does this have something to do with you wanting to marry Jon Snow?” Davos asked. His eyes were narrowed in sympathy and Lyanna wanted to smack him.

She was sick of being an object of pity in the castle. She wished to be excluded from this narrative where she was besotted with Rickon’s traitor brother. She had only gone along with it because she hated to see her King cry!

“I never wanted to marry Jon Snow. It was part of an elaborate ruse — to get Princess Sansa to think she wanted to marry Jon Snow. Obviously that failed. Instead everyone keeps accusing me of being sweet on him, and I’m not at all,” Lyanna grumbled out the last words. “This has to do with the King’s plans getting out of control. Wanting two people to get together doesn’t mean we should give the North away!”

Davos looked down at his hands for a moment, mulling over her complaints. “It was good for you to come to me with this, Lady Lyanna.”

____

As Lyanna left Davos’ solar she happened upon the traitor himself, Jon Snow. He did not look much like a Targaryen, but he was as much a disappointment to the North as was her own uncle. But though Lyanna had always known Jorah was a slaver, she had fallen for Jon’s acts of kindness. At least Jorah had not taught her how to wield a sword only to stab her in the back with an equally sharp blade.

“Lady Mormont!” Jon greeted her pleasantly.

Lyanna attempted to smile back, but her body was not capable of being duplicitous and she merely bared her teeth.

“I haven’t seen you in the training yard lately,” Jon said.

“I’ve been busy. With politics.”

“With politics?” Jon asked, pulling his eyebrows together. “I thought we were done with all of that, now that Daenerys has left.”

He had a lot of nerve, but Lyanna was not as distracted by his beautiful hair as she’d made everyone believe. “I can only speak for Bear Island, but I should remind you that I didn’t kneel, Lord Targaryen.” All of the kindness left Jon’s face with a defeated sigh. Once again, she had gotten the best of him. “And my King certainly didn’t kneel either.”

“I have no great desire to kneel either, My Lady,” Jon said, unable to hide his exasperation. “Rickon is also my King, and I remain loyal to him.”

That was highly unlikely, but Lyanna knew enough about diplomacy that she should not push him further. He knew that she knew he was a traitor, and that was enough for now. Targaryens were an untrustworthy bunch, eager to conquer and burn people alive. Lyanna curtsied and walked away, leaving Jon to his discussion with Ser Davos. The onion knight had been warned and would not fall for any of Jon Snow’s duplicitous mind games.

As Lyanna reached her own chambers, Lord Littlefinger popped out of the shadows. Lyanna let out an embarrassing squeak. The sight was so unnerving Lyanna couldn’t help but jump, the fright sending a shiver down her spine.

“Forgive my surprise, Lord Baelish. I didn’t see you there,” Lyanna said.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Lord Targaryen,” Baelish said. Though the man never actually twirled his moustache when he talked, it always seemed that he was doing just that. “You are not the only one who doesn’t want to see the North given away.”

“Why should you care about the North?” Lyanna asked, rolling her eyes. “Where are you from again? Finger Town?”

Lord Baelish pursed his lips. “I am from the Fingers, it is true. But I am Regent of the Vale and Lord of Harrenhall. I have an interest in what happens to the realm.”

“I don’t even know what Harrenhall is,” Lyanna said.

“It’s the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes at Littlefinger’s embarrassing attempts to impress her. “There is no Seven Kingdoms, Lord Baelish. And the largest castle in my Kingdom — the North — is Winterfell. Now, if you must excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”

In truth, Lyanna did not have matters to attend to. And though it was dishonourable to lie, it was also unbearable to be trapped in close quarters with Lord Baelish out of courtesy. She had not thought much of Lady Stark when she first met her, but Lyanna admired Sansa’s ability to put up with such an odious man.

As she sat in her room alone, she considered just how much she had come to look up to Lady Stark. It was not Lady Sansa’s fault that her cousin was a traitor. She could not blame Sansa for Jon Snow’s dragon blood or the effects of thousands of years of inbreeding. The Mormonts had been allied with the Starks for generations, but this feeling of betrayal hurt not because of the history of their houses. It was not about the North, even, though there was little Lyanna loved more. It hurt because Lyanna barely had anyone left. Sansa was brave and kind and she had made her a dress with a bear mauling a soldier embroidered on her chest. She had even taught Lyanna how to sew, something that Lyanna had always thought was stupid and a waste of her precious time. She still did, if anything she’d come to find it even more boring, but it had been nice to see Lady Sansa smile.

Tears came to Lyanna’s eyes when she remembered the last time she saw her own mother. Lyanna had watched as her mother and older sister went off to war. Nobody ever told her they wouldn’t come back. They had been winning the war. The maester had read her news, stories of the their fierceness on the battlefield and how they were defeating the evil Lannisters. She had wanted to be just like them one day.

Lyanna tried not to think about it most days. It was the only way she could be brave. She couldn’t be weak, not ever. She could not trust an ally or break bread with a southerner. Her mother’s war was not over. Lyanna was the only one left to carry on, and she would fight till her dying breath. She would avenge them, and the young wolf too. Her and Rickon both. They had promised each other back on Bear Island.

Jon Targaryen — though perhaps he called himself Jonerys or Jhaegar now, Lyanna couldn’t be certain what twisted arrangements he had made in the south — didn’t seem to care about any of that anymore.

And now Rickon was too busy trying to make them be his parents he’d forgotten that his real mother had died with hers. Even Lyanna herself was guilty of that. It had been so fun being at Winterfell, even with that apocalypse thing Jhaegar kept lecturing them all about.

But not Sansa. Sansa had never forgotten. She worked so hard to keep the North safe and prepare for the long winter ahead of them all.

Lyanna wiped the tears off her face with her sleeve. She had been wrong to manipulate Sansa. She should have known better.

But Maester Wicker was always telling her that it was never too late to do the right thing. And so she knew what she had to do. She wiped her face with a wash cloth and sucked in a breath, bounding down the hall to Lady Stark’s solar. Lyanna’s pulse was beating fast as she opened the door, forgetting in her urgency to knock.

It took a moment to comprehend what was happening before her eyes. But there Jhaegar was, with his hands all over Sansa — kissing her.

Sansa was blushing when they finally disentangled themselves.

Jhaegar rubbed the back of his neck. “Lady Mormont,” he said, with a touch of guilt. Even with her warnings, he clearly hadn’t expected to be caught in the act.

But Sansa only looked concerned, crossing the room to kneel down beside Lyanna and cup her cheek. “Have you been crying?” Sansa asked.

Lyanna was too angry to admit to that in front of Jhaegar. “No,” she insisted. But Sansa still looked so concerned, and even Jhaegar stared at her, his manipulative puppy-dog eyes full of sympathy. Lyanna couldn’t help herself. “Daenerys and Jhaegar and Rickon are all conspiring together!” she exclaimed.

“What?” Sansa asked, clearly so innocent of such corruption that she couldn’t even comprehend what was going on behind her back.

“Jhae — Jon and the King and the Targaryen all want you to be Queen in the North and marry Jon and have half-Targaryen babies!”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Even after convalescing at Winterfell for a fortnight, Jon was tired. He’d hoped to tie up some loose ends before going back North. He wanted to know what would be waiting for him when all of this was over. He had hoped it would be Sansa, but ever since their kiss in the crypts she’d taken great care to avoid him. 

Sansa moved through Winterfell like a ghost. Jon could feel her presence in the castle, and yet he never seemed to be able to find her. She supped in her solar, or worse, in Littlefinger’s. There always seemed to be someone surrounding her to tell Jon that Lady Stark could not be bothered at the moment. That she was attending to important business. Jon could do nothing except swallow down his disappointment. 

Rickon, on the other hand, stuck to his side more loyally than Ghost ever had. At least Ghost didn’t constantly prattle on about girls who’d rejected him, though. It seemed sleep was the only time Rickon would let him out of his sight for more than an hour or two (but even that was never certain. Rickon oft fell asleep cuddled into Jon’s side as Jon read to him.) Jon adored his little brother, and he would have no cause to complain, except that Rickon couldn’t stop talking about Sansa. Rickon woke him in the morning, sat with him at all of their meals, trained with him after breakfast, followed him as he spoke to the new recruits. 

“They are my army,” Rickon said when Jon confronted him, shrugging his little shoulders. 

“I’ll have to leave again eventually, Rickon,” Jon told his brother, his voice somber. “At Castle Black Lyanna seemed to think I could just walk away, but I can’t.”

“I know,” Rickon said in a voice that made Jon certain that his brother certainly had not accepted the reality of the situation. It made him sad, because it was far from assured that Jon would return...

When Jon finally did corner his sister, he grabbed her wrist. She looked down at his hand for a moment before looking up at him, emotion drained from her face. “We need to talk,” he said.

“I know,” Sansa sighed, making no move to pull her arm away, “but I’m busy today. I can’t.”

She seemed determined to make him suffer. 

“I’m leaving at dawn.”

Sansa shrugged, “it’s not easy work preparing for an army of the undead, you know.”

“I’m well aware. I was stabbed to death for doing just that.”

It was meant to be a joke, but he’d never been particularly good at those. Sansa didn’t laugh, she just looked back at him with sad eyes. Lately Sansa had looked as cold as her mother before her, her thoughts inaccessible, hidden behind an icy facade. 

“If you insist...” Sansa said, “come to my chambers before dinner, then.”

Jon released her hand and nodded as Sansa walked away. He wasn’t certain if she’d keep her word. Perhaps this was just another way to avoid talking about what happened in the crypts. But it was his best shot. 

Jon was still standing there when Rickon appeared behind him. “I’ve decided I’m coming with you,” he said.

“Rickon, we’ve already discussed this to death. You’re too young.”

“That’s not fair! I’m twelve. Robb was fifteen when he led an army and I’m only…” Rickon fiddled with his fingers, clearly working out the arithmetic, “…only three years younger than that! Besides, I don’t want to miss any of it. Neither does Shaggy. He wants to eat the Night King. He told me.”

“Trust me, you do want to miss it. All of it. Besides you’ll be here, learning to read and write —”

“I can read and write, Jon,” Rickon whined, his voice getting loud once again. Rickon growled for emphasis.

“Then send me letters.”

Rickon sighed. “It’s not the same. I need to be there to protect everyone… I don’t trust those dragons not to burn you… and we could bring Summer too and then Bran could fight with his warging—”

Jon shook his head, “you need to do something much more important. You need to look after San — everybody. You need to keep them safe here.”

Rickon nodded. “I will, of course I will. I just wanted to keep you safe too.”

The sad look on his brother’s face broke Jon’s heart. Jon leaned down and hugged Rickon. There was no way Rickon could keep him safe, but that wasn’t his job. “Nothing is more important than Winterfell, Rickon. This castle can’t fall. We need to keep it safe. The walls of Winterfell will protect the entire North if need be, and so will you and your sister.”

Rickon nodded again and pulled out of Jon’s embrace. “Okay. Jon?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to be King anymore. I want you to be.”

Jon sighed. Where had this come from? “I can’t, Rickon. I’m not your brother. The Northern lords would never let me. Besides, you’re doing a really good job.”

“It’s really hard and I…” Rickon’s voice trailed off. “I know that Sansa would make a good Queen.”

“She would…” Sansa was good at almost everything she’d tried — except, of course, sums. But Jon was good at them, and before he’d left and they’d fallen out, he’d helped her with the ledgers. Sansa had gotten them this far. Jon never would have kept fighting, he never would have found Rickon, there never would have been a home for Bran to come home to… not without Sansa. 

“And if you married her, you would make a good King… even Queen Daenerys thinks so…”

Jon laughed and shook his head. “That’s not how succession works. You shouldn’t just give up your crown, Rickon. You’re twelve. You might really regret it. And your subjects love you. They’re all here for you, you know? Even the wildlings prefer you to me.”

“That’s just because you’re so grumpy. If you smiled more, they would love you too.”

Jon laughed. “Thanks… I guess.”

“Do you not want to marry Sansa? She wants to marry you. I know it now… I didn’t think so before, but I’ve been watching her when she doesn’t know I’m there. And I’ve been talking to Tormund about love and I really think you should steal Sansa. Before you leave tomorrow.”

Jon was speechless. Rickon got love advice from… Tormund of all people? 

“Just think about it,” Rickon said, and he left Jon’s side.  
Jon didn’t have to think about it much. He had more than one dream about stealing Sansa. She was a willing captive in all of them, eager to cuddle up with him. They were tame dreams, brought on by the kisses that still haunted him.

“I want to marry Sansa,” Jon said as soon as he burst into Ser Davos’ solar. “Rickon has given me permission. Well, he’s basically instructed me to do it.”

“That’s… wonderful…” Ser Davos said, scratching his head. “Lyanna Mormont was just in here… telling me about these plans. About how Rickon wants to give away the North and… a Targaryen conspiracy?”

“What? No. Well. Yes. I think Daenerys has done some meddling… but… I don’t want to be king. You know I don’t care about that. I just want her and Rickon has given me hope that she wants me too. And, uh…” Jon’s voice trailed off.

“Alright. Do you want to talk about it?” Davos passed Jon a hard candy but Jon shook his head.

“No, I don’t want to talk. I want to marry her tonight. I need you to get everything ready.”

“Have you asked her if she wants to marry you?” Davos asked.

“No. Not yet. But I will, that’s why I need you to do the rest.” Davos was good at making everything come together quickly. “She’ll want flowers, so if there’s any in the glass garden, fetch them... And tell all of our banner men who are in the camps that there will be an event in the godswood tonight.”

“I can do that,” Davos said. “Jon… we can’t really install you as King tonight, though. That would be a lot, and there isn’t time.”

“I don’t want to be King! Why does everyone think I want some throne?” For fuck’s sake, all Jon Snow ever wanted to do was burn the dead, kill the night king, and maybe get to make love with the woman he loved before he died! He didn’t usurp his little brother. They were Starks! Not Lannisters or Targaryens! 

“Just a wedding then. It will boost morale,” Davos nodded and Jon moved to leave. Before he could, Davos stopped him. “Jon?”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

He’d need it.

——————

Sansa was sitting in her solar. She was ostensibly going through the papers Petyr had wanted her to sign with the royal seal as Rickon’s regent, but in reality she was staring at the wall. She was scared. Time had passed so quickly. Jon had just returned, and already he was about to leave. Maybe for good. She knew it was wrong to avoid him, but she’d always been bad at hiding from reality.

Tears welled in Sansa’s eyes. It had been so long since she had something worth losing. Even if Jon died, she would still have her brothers. She would have Winterfell too. But somehow she had grabbed hold of something real. Sansa hadn’t been trying to find a fairytale prince, she didn’t even believe in love anymore. She thought she could force herself to wake up from the spell she’d been under. But here she was, crying in her solar, miserable at the thought of losing him.

More time must have past than she’d thought, because there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her dress and forcing a smile.

But it was not Jon, it was Rickon. 

“Are you okay, Sansa?” Rickon’s forehead creased in concern and he rushed to her side.  
Rickon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. “These are good, aren’t they? I wish I had one when I was on Skagos. I used to cry a lot there. I’d just wipe my face on Shaggydog. I would always get fur in my eye.”  
Sansa’s heart swelled at the image and she couldn’t help but laugh. Shaggydog was a nightmare of a direwolf. He was nothing like Lady had been. He was untrainable, wild, always into something he shouldn’t be. But Sansa couldn’t help but love the direwolf who had taken such good care of her little brother, who had gotten Rickon through more than any child should have to bear.

“Are you crying about Jon?” Rickon asked.

Sansa didn’t see the point in hiding the truth. It was obvious, wasn’t it? She nodded, sniffling into the handkerchief.

“You love him, don’t you?” 

Sansa nodded again.

“Do you want to be queen, Sansa?”

“What?” Sansa asked, genuinely confused at the turn of the conversation. 

“Queen Daenerys wants you to marry Jon and for me to let you two be King and Queen in the North.”  
Sansa rolled her eyes. “Queen Daenerys wants a lot of things. A few weeks ago she wanted Jon all to herself and to make him her King.”  
“I think it’s a good idea. Being king is really hard, and Jon will be bored when he gets home from war...”

“He’ll be bored?”

Rickon sighed. “I don’t think Jon knows how to be... normal. Happy? He never stops doing work or training or helping with bricks or anything... and being King is so much work... and he’s so serious, you know? About the white walkers and the wights... when he gets home, everything will be perfect, so there will be nothing to do. We’ll all be together and Melisandre told me summer will last forever. Maybe he’d leave to go find a problem, or something...”

“I don’t think you need to worry about this, Rickon. Jon isn’t likely to abandon us to go be a hero.”

“Maybe he’d try to slay Daenerys dragons, and then get burned alive...”

“Rick —“

“It could happen! If he was King, he could just deal with problems like the granary, or disciplining rapers, or something like that.”

“Rickon you’re not giving up your title so you can trap Jon here. He’s not going to leave. He won’t. Where would he go? We’re his family, he loves us. He loves me.” Just saying the words made Sansa feel relieved, and from the look on Rickon’s face she could tell he was relieved too. “And I love him. We don’t need to be king and queen of anything. If — when Jon gets back, we’ll be happy here taking care of you.”

Rickon grinned and there was another knock on the door.

“Come in!” Sansa called, her heart beating heavily in her chest.

This time it was Jon. He looked anxious, but she supposed that was her fault for avoiding him for so long. 

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Rickon said, ducking out of the room. Jon closed the door after him.

Sansa stood up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have avoided you.”

“Why did you? Why did you run away?”

Sansa closed her eyes. She shook her head at the madness of it all. “I was scared. I was stupid.” How could she have been so stupid? 

“You’re not stupid.”

“I am. I really am.”

She felt him grab her hand, and when she opened her eyes he was looking at her with his puppydog eyes. That same look that had made her lose her head months ago. 

“I just... can’t lose you too. You saved my life, you know.”

“No. You saved mine,” Jon said.

And just like that she was crying again. She let herself fall into his arms. Nowhere ever felt quite as safe as Jon’s embrace. When Jon had first hugged her at Castle Black, Sansa had wanted to stay like that forever. 

“I wasted so much time,” she said, sighing against him. “You’re leaving tomorrow. And I don’t know if you’re coming back.”

“We still have time,” Jon said. He sounded very sure of himself all of a sudden. “Marry me tonight.”

Sansa’s pulse quickened. Emotion took over and she didn’t know what to do or what to say, so she just kissed him. He kissed back eagerly, and she grinned against his lips. All was well. One last perfect night. 

Sansa heard yet another knock at the door, and rolled her eyes. Of course Rickon had been listening. But when she turned her head, it was Lyanna Mormont with her face twisted into a scowl. She was very nearly growling. Sansa had become fond of the little girl. It had become apparent what Rickon saw in his little crush. Underneath all the anger Lyanna just wanted to be loved. 

“Lady Mormont,” Jon said, his voice on edge. Clearly he hadn’t expected to be interrupted by a little girl, let alone a little girl who had a crush on him. 

Sansa let Jon go and walked to the little girl, cupping Lyanna’s cheek with her hand. “Have you been crying?” Sansa asked.  
Lyanna practically seethed with anger. “No,” she said, as if such a thing was impossible. Sansa nodded gamely, willing to go along with it. “Daenerys and Jhaegar and Rickon are all conspiring together!”

“What?” 

“Jhae — Jon and the King and the Targaryen all want you to be Queen in the North and marry Jon and have half-Targaryen babies.”  
Sansa wanted that too. Very much. Not to be Queen, but to have Jon’s babies. Perhaps they would make one tonight. Sansa blushed at the thought of making love with Jon. 

“Did you just call me Jhaegar?” Jon asked.

“It’s just — your Targaryen name!”

“My Targaryen name is Aemon,” Jon said, his voice still confused.

Sansa turned to him, “it is?”

“But I’m happy to go by Jon.”

“Aemon the Dragonknight. My hero.”

“Please don’t call me Aemon.”

“He loved his sister with all his heart. He died for her.”

“Let’s not... let’s not joke about Targaryen incest, Sansa. We’re Starks.”

Sansa laughed, “alright.” 

Behind her, Lyanna fumed. “You’re not mad?”

“No... I... I think it’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“It’s adorable, really. That Jon conspired to get me to marry him.” Sansa was grinning from ear to ear. 

“I didn’t conspire, though,” Jon added, “I don’t actually know what she’s talking about. But... will you?”

“Will I?”

“Marry me. You didn’t answer... we just...”

“Oh... yes. Of course! Yes. One last perfect night together.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter, but here's some art!

  
Though it had been Jon and Sansa’s wedding, Rickon still managed to end up the centre of attention. Not all of their banner men had been able to attend, so the hall was full of soldiers and wildlings that were due to leave for war in the morning. They were rowdy and eagerly drinking the wedding wine and eating better than they probably had in months. Their king attended them, going from table to table to mingle with the small folk.   
  
“I think Rickon’s going to be a good king,” Sansa said with a smile, looking over at Jon and catching his eye.   
  
“Do you know what they’re calling him?”   
  
Sansa shook her head.   
  
“The young-er wolf,” Jon said, unable to resist laughing.   
  
“That is… accurate,” Sansa said, shaking her head as she laughed. She leaned over and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “You have a beautiful smile, you know.”   
  
Sansa may be his wife, but it still felt odd that she could touch his face like this in front of a hall full of people. It felt unnatural that such a beautiful woman was so happy to be married to him.   
  
“Did you mean what you said about having my babies?” Jon choked out after a moment of silence.   
  
Sansa blushed. Her eyes fell to her lap and she bit her lip. “Yes. Quite serious, actually.”   
  
“Well...” Jon’s voice trailed off. “Maybe we could try to do that tonight.”   
  
“I’m surprised the crowd hasn’t begun to demand a bedding,” Sansa said, her voice somewhat wistful. That Sansa was anticipating hopping into bed with him made him feel warmer than the ale he’d drank had. He couldn’t help but grin like an idiot yet again. He’d been doing that all night.   
  
“There won’t be a bedding ceremony,” came Rickon’s voice from beyond Jon. “I’ve been telling everyone that if they touch my sister I’ll behead them myself and let Shaggydog eat their brains.”   
  
Jon turned his head to look at his little brother, and Tormund was there grinning like a buffoon. Clearly he was anticipating blood. “You two better get going,” Tormund said. Then he leaned down and whispered in Jon’s ear, “you remember what I taught you all those years ago, eh?”   
  
“I don’t think so,” Jon replied, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember anytime Tormund had given him useful advice.   
  
“You have to get her as wet as —”   
  
“Yes, I’m remembering now.” Jon stood up and clapped Tormund on the back. “Shall we?” he offered Sansa his hand and she took it.

 

“You know, I didn’t have a bedding ceremony at any of my other weddings either,” Sansa said when they’d made their way down the hall to her chambers. Her voice was almost wistful.

 

“Surely you didn’t want that hall of drunk men to strip you naked?” Jon furrowed his brow, and looked at his new wife and tried his best to read her face. He had no such luck. She was usually as stoic as he was brooding, and tonight she only had a small smile on her lips.

 

“No… but I was thinking… maybe _you_ could carry me to bed?” She bit her lip and looked him up and down, “unless you think I’m too heavy… I wouldn’t want to injure you before you set off to war…”   
  
Jon laughed and shook his head. He wasted no time in dipping down to scoop his statuesque bride into his arms. Somehow Sansa managed to maintain the scent of summer. He realized suddenly that he was now allowed to comment on everything about Sansa that he loved. She was his wife, if anything it was his obligation to charm her. “Your hair smells so good,” he murmured into her ear.

 

“Thank you,” Sansa smiled up at him as they crossed the threshold of what would now be their chambers. “It’s lavender oil. I can give you some to bring North, if you want.”

 

Jon’s grimaced. “I don’t know how much my men would respect me if they caught me applying lavender oil to my beard.”

 

Sansa’s eyes crinkled at the sides as she laughed. “Not for you to wear… so you can smell it and remember me.”

 

“I’m not going to need any help remembering you,” Jon said as he set Sansa down on the bed.    
  
“I think I’d like a lock of your hair,” Sansa said, but then shook her head. “Nevermind… what was I thinking? Your hair’s so perfect the way it is. I wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

 

Jon smirked and grabbed his dagger from his waist. “It’ll grow back,” he said and cut a sizable chunk out for her. He laid it on the bedside table.

 

When he looked back at Sansa she was grimacing.

 

“Do I look that bad?” he asked.

 

“Worse,” Sansa giggled. “Jon… are you ever going to take that cloak off?” Sansa asked from their bed, looking up at him with lusty eyes.

  
“I haven’t yet. Not even on dragonstone. It was really hot, but I just felt better in the cloak.”

 

“Like a security blanket?”

 

“Yes. Just like that, actually. It reminded me of home. Of you. Of us.”

 

“So, are you gonna leave it on while we…”  


“No, no. Of course I can take if off during the consummation, Sansa.”

 

Sansa gulped. “You can keep it on, just take everything else off. I think… well, I’ve imagined how that would look plenty of times.”

 

“Well, I’d be happy to act out all of  your fantasies, my Lady,” Jon said, laughing as he unlaced his own breeches and unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor. “Is that what you had in mind?”

 

Sansa nodded. “Let me touch.” He walked closer and Sansa ran her hands against his hard stomach and sighed. Sansa leaned down to kiss him. “I love you,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “I wish you didn’t have to go. I wish I hadn’t been so silly these past few weeks… I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time. But you need to know that before you do. I love you.”

 

“I love you too, my lady wife,” Jon smiled.

 

“Thank you. I never thought anyone would marry me for love. But you’ve allowed me to dream.” Sansa leaned down to kiss him once more. “Now… if you could help me undress?”

 

“Gladly. Though you might have to instruct me on how not to break your corset."

 

"Just break it," Sansa said, a sparkle in her eye. 


	11. Chapter 11

“I wish I was a greenseer,” Rickon said wistfully, pulling a red leaf from the weirwood tree and tearing it apart in his hand. He let the pieces of leaves fall from his hands into the black pool. He was talking to Bran — or rather, he was trying to talk to Bran, because when he turned he noticed Bran’s eyes had gone back into his head. Rickon sighed dramatically, hoping the force of his annoyance would will Bran to pay attention to him. He wished Bran was the way he used to be, but it seemed like his favourite brother had become too mature — or too treelike, at least — to be interested in him. 

 

Rickon walked along the tree that had fallen across the spring, trying his best to balance. Shaggydog played in the distance, rubbing his face into the snow and dirt, looking up occasionally to make sure Rickon was alright. He and Bran used to play like this before they left Winterfell, but it was much more fun when Bran watched him.

 

Rickon heard footsteps behind them, and all of a sudden Bran’s eyes opened. “Arya,” he said, and the surprise of it made Rickon slip from the tree into the back pool. Two sets of hands pulled him out, and when Rickon coughed up water he was looking into the concerned dark grey eyes of a face he could have sworn he’d forgotten. He shivered, his wet cloak hanging heavily to his body. He felt like he was being eaten by the woodland creature he wore around his neck, but he was grinning anyway. So was Arya, from ear to ear.

 

“Arya?” he asked, because it would be dreadfully embarrassing if she was just his cousin or something, or even a stranger or, hell, his father’s true bastard.

 

“You remember me?” she asked, surprise in her voice. 

 

He could only recall bits and flashes of her, it was true, but he remembered the way she made him feel and her messy hair and the way she always smelled of sweat and leaves and adventure. Even though he was wet, Arya hugged him close. A distant memory of Arya putting him in a wheelbarrow and pushing him through the castle came to him, Arya running wildly while Rickon urged her to go faster and faster.

 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Rickon said.

 

“So are you,” Arya laughed.

 

“I forgot about that. I’m King in the North now, though.”

 

“I know. I came as soon as I heard,” Arya pulled apart from him and kissed him on the forehead. Then she went to Bran and threw her arms around him.

 

“I knew you’d come,” Bran said.

 

“He’s a tree wizard now,” Rickon explained, “and Jon and Sansa are married. Isn’t it wonderful?”

 

Arya grimaced, “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” Sansa looked away sheepishly, but Arya seemed to push that out of her mind and continued to talk to Bran, “what’s a tree wizard?”

 

Rickon opened his mouth to explain, but Sansa grabbed him by the hand and pulled him to his feet. “Let them get caught up, we need to get our little King in the North into fresh clothes and to see the maester. He can’t afford to catch a cold.”

 

Rickon was not so little, though. He was almost taller than Arya now. Though he supposed that wasn’t saying much, since Arya looked almost like one of the children of the forest, the way Bran described them. So small and with hair that looked like a bird’s nest. Though he supposed Jon wasn’t much bigger than Arya, really. Not for a man. Rickon went along with Sansa. “Are Targaryens all really short?” he asked.

 

“What?”

 

“Are they like little elves?”

 

“Uh, I don’t think so, Rickon,” Sansa asked as they walked out of the godswood. 

 

“Little demon fire elves,” Rickon corrected.

 

At that Sansa laughed, “Jon isn’t a demon, though I supposes he is on the shorter side.”

 

“Dan-error-is was really small, it’s just hard to tell because she has a dragon. You shouldn’t be ashamed of marrying Jon, though. So what if he’s a Targaryen? He’s got Stark in him too, and we’re human and wolf and good.”

 

“Trust me, Rickon, I’m not ashamed of marrying Jon because he’s a Targaryen. It’s…”

 

“I asked the maester and he said cousin incest isn’t real incest,” Rickon butted in. He had been concerned about that at the start after Lyanna badgered him about it. 

 

“Let’s not talk about incest, sweetheart.” 

 

“But that’s why Arya’s mad at you, right?”

 

“Leave it,” Sansa commanded, and he did, even though he was still king and technically Sansa telling him to be quiet counted as treason. He couldn’t do anything about it, anyway. He loved her and he was no kinslayer and if she was executed, who would read him bedtime stories?

 

So they walked in silence back to the castle. Hopefully Arya would come back soon, and eat dinner with them. Sansa hung Rickon’s cloak to dry and picked out new clothes for him. “I have news,” Sansa said as she dried his hair with a towel. “Good news. I wanted to tell Jon first, but we haven’t heard from him in so long… and I suppose you’re the next most important person to tell. Since you’re my King.”

 

“You’re pregnant?” Rickon asked hopefully.

 

“I’m pregnant,” Sansa confirmed. 

 

Rickon pulled Sansa in for a hug with excitement, and then realized it was probably too roughly. “Sorry, baby,” he said to Sansa’s stomach. “Is it a boy or a girl?” Rickon asked. 

 

“It’s far too soon to tell.”

 

“What are you going to name it?”

 

“I’m not sure. I think I should ask Jon.”

 

“If you named him Robb, we could be a whole family again,” Rickon said excitedly, disregarding any thoughts about Jon. He had to push that out of his mind, because he worried about Jon so much when he thought about him. It was Rickon’s duty as Jon’s king and brother-cousin to protect him, but he was stuck here taking care of the girls. 

 

“That’s a nice name. And what if it’s a girl?”

 

“I really want a baby brother,” Rickon said, grimacing. “Or at least a girl who likes to get dirty. Like Lyanna did…”

 

Rickon tried not to think of Lyanna either, because she was so very far away. She’d become unwell before the wedding, and soon left for Bear Island. She said she had to keep her people safe and prepare them for the Great War and reminded him that winter was coming, as though he wasn’t well aware. He was a Stark, and he’d been a little irritable that Lyanna had got to say the foreboding words. But there had been a storm after that, and they’d had no word from Lyanna. Rickon worried about her, worried so much it made him feel sick to his stomach. And more than worry, he just plain missed her. Sansa always gave him reasons why they’d had no raven, but still, one of those reasons could be that the white walkers killed them all. Sansa could not know, she could not see out of trees. And he didn’t dare ask Bran, in case she truly was dead.

 

“You miss her,” Sansa said, kissing him on the cheek. “But she’ll come back. I know it, Rickon.”

 

Rickon forced himself to smile and he nodded, “and so will Jon. He has to, so I — so baby Robb, I mean — will have a father.”

 

Sansa laughed at him and left him to change into dry clothes. She hesitated by the door, though. “Rickon?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Try not to bring up the fact that me and Jon are married to Arya, if you can. She just got home,” Sansa winced, and rubbed her stomach. “The news that Jon wasn’t her brother… she didn’t take that well, let alone that the person who loved her best has married me.”

 

“Do you think she wanted to marry Jon?” Rickon asked, confused. It would be a little bit odd if all of his sisters wanted to marry somebody they thought was their brother. What sort of family would they be? 

 

“No, no… only, me and Arya didn’t really get along very well, when we were young. And I worry that she thinks I’ve taken yet another thing from her.”

 

Rickon nodded his ascent. He didn’t want Arya and Sansa to fight. He was hopeful that Arya’s return meant that he might get a bit more attention. Bran had to do his mind magic, and Sansa had to be Lady of Winterfell, but Arya was just a girl… a fun girl, but she couldn’t go off like Jon. Or if she did, maybe she would take him with her! 

 

****

 

Rickon made Sansa and Arya promise not to reveal that their long lost sister was home. He wanted to be the one to do the honours. He had a speech prepared in his mind, though he could not write it down because he was tragically illiterate thanks to a childhood spent not learning his letters but evading cannibals on Skagos. That night he invited all the smallfolk to feast with them and had Osha spread the word that their king had exciting news for them. 

 

His cloak had not fully dried by dinner, so Rickon wore the ceremonial armour that had been crafted especially for him. On his chest was a terrifying direwolf baring its fangs. It was a surprisingly good likeness of Shaggydog given that the direwolf had refused to sit still and be sketched. There was whispering among his people, but when Rickon stood the crowd quieted. 

 

“You must have heard I have news,” Rickon bellowed, trying to sound as grand as Jon did when he did his inspirational speeches. But he’d spent so much effort trying to look kingly and dignified that he’d forgotten the rest of the speech. He looked down at the crowd, all of them staring up at him expectantly and he was filled with fear. He had faced so much in his young life — cannibals, surprisingly aggressive unicorns, being abandoned by his parents and siblings — and he had been brave through it all. Public speaking, though, was an entirely different matter. He swallowed. “Uhhhhmmmmm….”

 

“Are you going to war?” A voice called out. There was whispering among the crowd. 

 

“No…” Rickon gestured dramatically to the doorway. “Arya!”

 

Arya came out on cue, waving to the crowd as Rickon had commanded her to.

 

The crowd did not react in applause the way they were supposed to, the way they always did when Jon made his speeches. Instead they stayed mostly silent. He heard a “who?” from the crowd and was outrageously offended on his sister’s behalf.

 

“My long lost sister, presumed murdered by the Lannisters, has made her way home at long last! This is an omen of good things to come,” Sansa said, rescuing Rickon from his failure of a speech.

 

At that the crowd cheered, finally. Arya grinned at the crowd, continuing to wave. It was very queenly, really, which gave Rickon another idea. Perhaps he could get out of being king after all. 

 

They feasted merrily. Villagers came up to Arya to welcome her home, and when there was nobody else to distract them Rickon did his best to ease the tension between Sansa and Arya. It had been much easier work to matchmake Jon and Sansa together. There seemed to be things they could not or would not say to each other, and Rickon had to fight himself from telling Arya about the baby. He knew that would do the trick and fix everything, even though Sansa thought it would mean disaster. Bran was not very helpful, talking for a few moments only to go back inside his little coma. Rickon suspected it wasn’t because there was any urgency at that moment, but because Bran found the dinner awkward. 

 

Maester Wolkan came into the hall with great urgency. “Your Grace, a letter from Bear Island.”

 

Sansa moved to take the letter, but Rickon grabbed it out of Maester Wolkan’s hands and unfurled it himself. It was Lyanna’s sigil, and her handwriting, and that was enough for him. He smiled with the knowledge that his dearest friend was alive before passing it to Sansa to read to him. “It’s from Lyanna,” he said, pleased with himself for being able to ascertain that without anybody needing to find out their king was illiterate.

 

“Who is Lyanna?” Arya asked.

 

“Lyanna Mormont, Lady of Bear Island,” Rickon said with pride.

 

“The future Queen in the North,” Bran supplied with a smile, winking at Arya.

 

“Bran, Lyanna would never steal my crown. She’s no traitor!” Rickon protested, annoyed with Bran for making such a baseless accusation. Arya and Sansa both giggled at that, and Rickon could tell they were laughing at him. He glowered at them, making a slight growl under his breath as was his habit when he wanted to intimidate people. “That’s not funny.”

 

Sansa looked at the parchment and began to read it and Rickon went back to his bean soup. Suddenly, Sansa stood up and cleared her throat. “I need everyone to remain calm. But you cannot go back to the village until morning. The night is no longer safe for us. You can all sleep here, and I will feed you and do my best to keep you warm. Winterfell is the safest place now.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to Tubbylita, without whose endless enthusiasm this fic would have been long abandoned.

Lyanna had journeyed to the end of the earth in veiled secrecy to do her part in the War for the Dawn. She told Rickon she was going to Bear Island, and though she knew it was treason to lie to her king, she knew it would be worse if she let the Night King murder everyone in the North including him. Rickon had wanted to go too, but he wasn’t allowed. Lyanna too thought that was for the best. Rickon was reckless, and though he was scrappy, he was a mediocre fighter at best. Lyanna was scarcely better than him, but she knew when to retreat, and her life was not worth as much as her King’s. Dying protecting the king was a valiant way to die— it was an end her own mother and sisters had faced bravely not so long ago.

 

In the end, it did not matter how talented Lyanna was with a blade anyway. Much to her dismay, she ended up at Westwatch-by-the-Shore, her 45 fighting men beyond the wall without her, knitting socks by the fire, wishing she’d paid better attention during Sansa’s lessons in the feminine arts.

 

Jon had told her that it was an important job. After all, she could write and it would be up to her to spread any news. But news was rare, and mostly she just perfected the art of making socks. The men of the night’s watch seemed happy enough to have something to keep their feet warm, but they did not appreciate the personal sacrifice Lyanna was making to be there and that was deeply annoying. 

 

She pined for her king more than she thought she would. And, to her horror, she realized she pined for the boy under the crown as well. It was not only that he had made her hand of the king, a position never before held by a woman let alone a girl of one and ten, it was that he’d had the ability to take her mind off of the chaos that threatened to envelop them. To make matters worse, they had parted on bad terms. She wished she could go back and make things right, but it was too late for that now.

 

And then, as if things were not bad enough, trapped at the wall with a bunch of smelly men, Lyanna Mormont got her first period.

 

She had known it would happen eventually, of course. She knew that she would bleed every month from now on, too. But this was supposed to happen when she was grown. It was meant to be a mark that she was a woman now, and Lyanna had never felt so childish. 

 

Months and months ago, Sansa had taken Lyanna into her solar and asked her if she’d bled yet. Lyanna had been deeply confused, and said that she had, because of course everyone had bled at one point or another. And then Sansa had explained what she called ‘the birds and the bees’ and the mooncycle. It was incredibly disgusting and vile, and not something Lyanna would ever repeat at all. Lyanna had hoped it was a cruel jape. 

 

Lyanna wondered if this was the gods’ way of telling her she never should have left Winterfell. There she would have been able to ask Sansa what to do about it. But here there were only Wildlings and grubby rapers from the south. There was not even a maester to ask. And Tormund, the only wildling Lyanna had developed a close friendship to, was on the front lines valiantly defending them.

 

For the four days she bled, she made do with washing profusely and pretending to have gotten pigs blood on herself to explain away her stained dress. 

 

“You slaughtered a pig?” a grubby man of twenty asked her, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “I don’t think that was something highborn ladies ought to do… m’lady.”

 

Lyanna stiffened, “yes, well, that’s why I fell in the pig’s blood. I’m not used to slaughtering animals, but I thought it was only right to do my part protecting the realm.”

 

The men seemed to like this answer well enough, until one of them asked when they would be getting to eat this bacon Lyanna had personally prepared.

 

“Oh no, I’m sorry, it’s been salted and preserved on my ship,” Lyanna said, “it’s for any emergency evacuation that’s necessary. We’ll need rations if the time comes to retreat.”

 

Lyanna was not a very good liar, but she made sure to speak definitively no matter what silly excuse she came up with to justify the absence of a hog’s worth of pork. As Lady of Bear Island, she’d had to lead her people for years when she was just a little girl, and she had learned to speak with authority. The men of the night’s watch were of a weaker stock than the men of bear island — who fought with the strength of ten, or even a hundred, men. In stark contrast, the men of the night’s watch were like half of a man, if that.

 

Finally, Lyanna’s period passed. In celebration she burnt the rags she’d used to soak up the blood in one last fire. She thought her problems at the wall were over then, at least for a few weeks, but a few days later Tormund and a fellow she’d never heard of named Gendry came running to the gates carrying a comatose Jon Snow on a sled. How long they had been running, Lyanna did not know, but finally she became useful. 

 

They packed Jon Snow onto her ship, and with Tormund on board set sail due south. 

 

She did her duty and wrote to Rickon and Sansa in the south, warning them to flee. She could not offer many details, but it was best they knew as soon as possible to run south. The rest of the war would have to be fought in the south. Part of the wall had fallen, and it was of the utmost importance that the Northerners be among the living. She sent word to Bear Island too, to fill the last ship with as many people as could be fit onto it, and flee to the south. Dragonstone was the only place they knew they could find refuge. Lyanna only hoped their ship would make it that long.

 

Once she’d finished, Lyanna walked into her cabin to report on her progress to Tormund, who appeared to be the leader now that Jon had fallen. But to her great shock, Jon was laying on the bed, half-undressed. Lyanna screamed at the horror of his naked body and scars, and slammed the door behind her as she fled. She would never make the mistake to not knock again.

 

Lyanna went above deck and stood there looking out at the sea. The people of bear island never got seasick, but her stomach was not strong enough to handle seeing Jon Snow in a state of undress. 

 

Tormund came up behind her and patted her roughly on the head with his humongous hand, mussing up her hair. “Your scream woke him up,” he said, with a roaring laugh.

 

At that Lyanna giggled. “Sorry for that… I just did not expect to have to see him like that.”

 

“This cure you of your fondness for Jon Snow, eh?” Tormund asked.

 

Lyanna wrapped her arms around herself. “In truth, I never did have any special fondness for him. It was meant to make Sansa jealous… but I’ve never lived it down.”

 

Tormund laughed again and shook his head with a grin. “Jon Snow’s always getting into all sorts of trouble with redheads.”

 

“Yourself included?” Lyanna asked, smirking, thinking herself clever for making such a quip.

 

Tormund gave a dramatic shrug. Lyanna enjoyed spending time with the wildling. They had gone on another mission together, half a year ago now. They stood in amiable silence looking out to sea until finally Tormund spoke up again.

 

“There is a story I’ve been meaning to tell you, Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island.”

 

“Please not the bear story. Rickon already told me — and I don’t want to hear it again.”

 

“No, no. Another sort of bear story, though,” Tormund sighed and looked away, as though he was about to lose his nerve. “I am a brave man, everybody knows this, and yet I’ve been too cowardly to tell you a story that you should know.”

 

“Well, tell me then.”

 

“Lyanna. I’m… I’m your father.”

 

Lyanna laughed and shook her head. “You’ve been drinking too much of that sour goat milk you Wildlings like. You’re not my father. Everybody knows I was fathered by a bear. Mormont women find their equals in beasts, not Wildlings.”

 

“Your mother never fucked a bear. And neither did I. We agreed to tell our people that we’d both fucked bears, because that was better than the alternative. We loved each other, once, Lyanna. I tried to steal her… but in the end she stole me. Stole me heart as well.” Tormund looked more stoic than he ever had before. Lyanna could tell that coming clean with this long-hidden truth was more terrifying for him than even riding a dragon was. 

 

“I think you might be mistaking my mother for another woman of bear island. I’m… I’m not even ginger.”

 

“It is my greatest shame that I was not able to give my daughter the gift of being kissed by fire,” Tormund said, his voice melancholic. “But I can prove it to you.” 

 

Tormund dipped his hand into the sea and splashed some salt water on his face. It did little to clean his face, which was covered in thick ginger fur. But then Tormund brought his dagger up to his face and began slicing away his beard, much to Lyanna’s horror. Pieces of red hair flew everywhere around them, some getting stuck to Lyanna’s dress. When some drifted into her mouth she had to spit to get it out. Finally, he began to shave with the blade of his dagger so that his face was entirely clean.

 

Underneath, Tormund looked almost identical to Lyanna.

 

Lyanna gasped.

 

She reached a hand out to touch his face. His shaving hadn’t been perfect, and there were several cuts, but it was her likeness. 

 

“Our people would never let us be together, we both had our duty. I tried to carry her off beyond the wall, but she was too strong for me to take her.”

 

Lyanna teared up, “that sounds like her.” She missed her mother so much, and finally she’d found somebody who was still alive who loved her mother too. “She never would have gone off beyond the wall with you savages.” With that, the floodgates opened and Lyanna openly wept. She threw herself into Tormund’s arms, happy to finally have found a member of her family again.

 

“I heard you had bacon prepared for the journey?” Tormund asked when the hug got uncomfortably long and she pulled apart. “Perhaps we could eat some as father and daughter.”

 

“It’s gone off, I’m afraid,” Lyanna said, not ready to discuss her menstrual cycle with her newly discovered father. “But I could teach you how to fish, if you’d like.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just remade a tumblr for jonsa-ing, follow me at bravegentlestrong.tumblr.com!


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